


Crows of Schwartzgrad Side Stories

by tangymustard (zestymayonaisse)



Series: Valkyria Chronicles: Crows of Schwartzgrad [5]
Category: Senjou no Valkyria | Valkyria Chronicles
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, tags will be added as needed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:13:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 35,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22259263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zestymayonaisse/pseuds/tangymustard
Summary: Completed:Part 0: Ruina Imperii (2/2)Into Darkness (3/3)Free Day at KriegstotcherNEW:Ragnite-Bound HeartIn Progress:
Relationships: Nikola Graf & Chiara Rocino
Series: Valkyria Chronicles: Crows of Schwartzgrad [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1365964
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3





	1. Part 0: Ruina Imperii (Chapter 1)

**Author's Note:**

> We're back! The schedule heading forward is going to be main story chapters broken up occasionally with side stories such as this. It's both so we can post more scenes that don't really fit in the main story, as well as giving us more time to work on the main story without too many breaks in the posting schedule. On a side note, "Don't Tame Your Demons" has been delisted, but if for some reason you'd like a copy of it, message @splatsune on tumblr.
> 
> Putting together a prequel chapter for CoS was not-so-suprisingly a bit of a challenge, because I didn’t want to sit down and write a full-on integration of VC4 into my re-imagining. So to keep it simple, I made the main point of divergence during Chapter 17, with two of the villains (Chiara and Belgar) suddenly discovering their agency. On a brief aside about the good doctor, as mentioned, Belgar had the most extensive rework to his character to better reflect the idea, that he was far more focused on defecting, rather than seizing the Centurion only to have his schemes interrupted by Operation Cyngus. (If you want to know how other game events still followed the same path, then let’s give Forseti some credit and assume he was the dominate force behind trying to capture the snowcruiser.) As for the fact that Riley solved her father’s equation related to implosion, Belgar would not be aware of that in the current moment (Given the situation, he knows someone aside from himself solved it). I felt it would be a bigger character moment had he lived that would need to be addressed later.
> 
> That said though, it’s guaranteed that the inclusion of Part 0 contradicts some aspects of Part 1 as it fleshes out the character of Friedhold, who thanks to the editor became more than a placeholder name. Part 1 was revised once already though, so for the sake of progression, I'm not too worried about it.

Chiara leaned against rubble at the base of the fountain, which once stood tall in the center of Arch Plaza, but now was in ruins thanks to the Centurion. She looked around, panicking, fully aware that she had failed to maintain the encirclement around the snowcruiser. The enormous ship’s shadow eclipsed the whole plaza. She tightened her grip on her Dunkel, trying to motivate herself to charge out once more.

Her radio crackled; over it, she could hear as the last of the Imperial soldiers threw themselves at the enemy in a final bid to recapture lost sectors. She poked her head over the fountain’s basin and watched with dread as the Federation’s Rangers held firm, firing from their entrenched positions and cutting down the conscripts.

Of course, there was no way for the hardened Rangers to know that the troops garrisoned in Schwartzgrad were mostly fresh recruits—young boys who had not even received proper basic training before being handed a rifle and told to hold the line. From her position, Chiara stared petrified as the last of her support began to add to the steel-clad bodies glinting in the snow dusted streets. The tan bricks of the beautiful city were stained a dull red as the massacre dragged on.

As if things couldn’t get any worse, the radio crackled again, this time with the voice of the remaining tank commander in the plaza. In a low tone he said, “Main gun out of ammunition… My loader is dead… Going for a ramming maneuver.”

Chiara’s eyes widened; she quickly fumbled with the receiver, mumbling, “No…”

But she was not heard. Instead, he shouted out, “For the motherland!” as his heavy tank charged toward the Hafen. The reinforced-barrel tank rotated its turret toward advancing armored vehicle and fired a single shell, which penetrated straight through the angled frontplate.

The explosion that followed was large enough to force Chiara to duck back down behind cover, as the shouting of the radio was drowned by the sound of exploding metal. The ringing in her ears made her dizzy, and as the dust settled, she sat up and swallowed the nauseated feeling. Her body wracked with the shallow breaths she took. The black smoke from the burning ragoline wafted in her direction and she gagged, shutting her eyes to stop them from burning. A heavy sense of dread was starting to settle itself in her stomach—an overwhelming sense of terror that was impossible to ignore.

As it began to settle on her that this may be her final operation, she became overwhelmed by a wave of chaotic feelings; she let out a high-pitched whine, unable to comprehend the idea. Anxiously, she glanced down at the small detonator hooked around her belt, a parting gift left to her by her father.

But she wasn’t as stupid as her partner liked to insist; Chiara knew what the present situation really meant—that Belgar had simply elected to abandon her, rather than offer anymore second chances. “ _No more failures”_ had been his final instruction. She slammed another bolt into her Dunkel and growled. “I am not useless, I am not useless,” she muttered to herself as a mantra, hands shaking as she adjusted her bow. With a shrill battle cry, the small girl charged out from behind the fountain and rushed toward the rangers who were starting to fan out.

Unfortunately, the burst of confidence was short lived as her legs finally gave out entirely. Chiara stumbled and fell face-first onto the stone street behind a small mount of rubble. She bit her tongue, tasting blood in her mouth, and began to whimper like a wounded animal.

“Nikola— I-I…” A pained groan interrupted her pleading and she looked up. She froze, seeing a dying Imperial soldier a few feet from her trying to hold in his small intestine, which was dangling out of his lower abdomen.

Normally such an image would cause her to laugh, as she usually enjoyed seeing others suffer. But as he slowly stopped breath and went limp, she felt the image painful to look at. The sharp throbbing in her skull pulsated directly behind her eyes, causing her to scrunch up her face. Partially blinded, she groped around for her crossbow and protested, “I… can keep fighting… Lord Belgar.”

But in X-0, mercy was a foreign concept for the human soldiers under the Doctor’s command. Her radio crackled again. Chiara fumbled for her receiver, pressing down and breathing erratically.

The emotionless voice of Forseti was on the other end. Without a hint of care, he said, “You have failed, Chiara.”

“I have… failed…” Chiara echoed as her stomach churned, and she felt like the very ground had disappeared from beneath her. There was another heavy pause, aside from a slight buzzing in the back of her skull, which made it difficult to hear anything.

After a minute, Forseti spoke again. “No more failures. You know what to do. Belgar’s orders.” Chiara winced, pushing herself into a sitting position. She sat there in the street, stunned as her mind outright refused to process the order. The only thing she could focus on was the rough stone underneath her and the deafening static in her head. She felt like she was underwater, unable to catch her breath or escape, but the strategist’s crackling, distant voice clawed itself back into her focus. He coldly ordered her, “Go.”

Chiara’s face sunk as the last bit of hope she had vanished from her amber eyes. Quietly she mumbled, “Go...” Her worst fear—that she may be thrown away like a broken tool—had finally come true.

Wrapping her hand around the detonator, Chiara pulled it from her belt and grunted, struggling to her feet. Staggering out into the street, her head began to throb mercilessly as she regained her balance. She made her way across the plaza, to stop the enemy tank.

-

Two days before the Federation’s Centurion crashed into Schwartzgrad, the Imperial Commissariat mobilized all of its available manpower to save its vast archives locked away in its main headquarters at the heart of the city. The Commissars, under the direction of the pale crow, worked tirelessly through the night. Yet, despite their best efforts, by the time the Rangers had deployed in Victory Plaza only around sixty percent of the organization’s meticulous records had been safely moved out of the potential blast zone.

The archival room was located on the first floor in the back of the main office. Typically, the hallway leading up to it was heavily guarded, but not this time. Now as reports flooded in of Federation rangers approaching the Capital, the typically organized office looked like it had been ransacked. Men wearing the traditional black garb of the Commissariat had torn apart the office as they desperately sorted through the frightful amount of reports, records, and ledgers to determine would was critical to the Commissariat’s ongoing operations. In the sea of black figures, one specifically stood among the murder—a woman adorned in the same style of uniform but in all white. Even her mouth was invisible with a white scarf resting on the top of her coat that covered all the skin below her nose.

Known as Saeoth to those who even knew of her, she took command and directed the rest of the men. In the center of the noisy room she pointed at two guards standing at the door, gesturing to three steel crates on the ground. The men nodded, saluted, and together grabbed the first one, rushing out of the building to the waiting trucks.

As they left, she turned around and rested her hand in her pocket. “Was that everything related to our plans in the East, Friedhold?”

“I believe so…” Commissar Friedhold answered, only half-listening as he skimmed through a stack of reports. It had only just dawned on him that he couldn’t read his own handwriting. Leaning back in a wooden desk chair, he looked oddly at ease with the chaos around him.

Behind the pale crow was Karl, who was sorting through a wall of filing cabinets. Watching her out of the corner of his eye, a cloud of white smoke drifted upwards from the cigarette dangling in his mouth. Squinting at the papers in his hand he shook his head. “These are all just executions.”

Disinterestedly he dropped them on the floor, returning to his search. Saeoth knelt down, curiously sifting through the stack which had formed on the ground, “Hmm. So many names… But I suppose the dead do not need such a thing.”

In the dim lighting of the room her cold red eyes glowed with a noticeable intensity. Unlike other valkyria, Saeoth never seemed to fully relax, as if she was prepared to use her power at a moment’s notice.

Friedhold got up with the rest of the reports he had read through, and instead of placing them in a crate, dropped them onto the floor as well. “Documentation of what we found in ruins four and six respectively. Let’s say… due to an administrative error, these were misplaced.”

Saeoth smiled coyly, knowing that the ongoing attack on the Capital was allowing the Commissariat to completely bury some of its more questionable actions within Imperial borders. “Of course.” She dusted her pants and stood up.

Karl, who was crouching as he dug through the bottom cabinets, held up another folder toward her. “This one is about you.”

Saeoth took it from him. “Another administrative error I suppose.” Without elaboration, she pulled out a lighter and struck it, lighting the file on fire. She watched the glowing flames slowly consume the page, continuing to hold onto it even as the fire started to burn away her white glove.

Karl and Friedhold watched her, unnerved. Neither man had gotten used to her tendency toward self-harm. She started to glow a faint blue before Friedhold cleared his throat. “Saeoth. We have work to do.”

“Right,” the pale crow responded distantly and the blue light disappeared almost instantly. Wordlessly she took out a fresh glove, replacing her charred one. For a brief second, both men saw a glimpses of the severity of her wounds before her blackened skin was once again hidden.

Together they diligently continued their efforts, utilizing a burst of energy provided by some of Karl’s stimulants. They managed to successfully secure all the names of the Commissariat’s active informants in the Federation, along with information related to the true nature of the Valkyur and other, darker, state secrets.

As the rangers began to turn the tide against the Imperial Forces in the plaza, a guard threw open the door to the room shouting, “Our forces are collapsing! Lord Commissar York has given the order to withdraw through checkpoint B!”

“Go ahead and get the trucks out of here! We will follow!” Karl responded, throwing open the remaining cabinets, emptying their contents on the floor.

Saeoth sighed. “X-0’s incompetence will be answered with blood. The military has failed our Empire for the last time.” Using her foot, she pushed around the papers, “We must burn the rest, lest something we missed fall into the enemy’s hands.”

“If our intelligence is accurate, then the Federation doesn’t –” Karl started to speak but she cut him off with a wave of her hand.

“Doctor Belgar is a disloyal slug who has been submitting false reports to us since day one. Is our present situation not proof of that?” Saoeth spoke harshly as the eerie red glow returned to her eyes, making them look like vibrant rubies. Stepping forward she enunciated slowly, “We cannot risk our plans becoming known to the world. But fret not, for once I get my hands on him… My wrath will show such a worm that his ‘accomplishments’ with those of my kind who choose to live as slaves are nothing compared to those of us who understand that we something greater than humanity.”

Karl watched her carefully, tentatively, understanding just how deep her unyielding hatred ran. She wasn’t unstable in any capacity; rather, it was her singular focus and calculated behavior that made her so rutheless. Friedhold rapped his knuckles against the table he was leaning on to get their attention. “Please allow me to stay behind and clean up the rest.”

Karl didn’t hesitate to protest, expression stern. “There is no reason for you to do that, Friedhold.”

“Consider this my official retirement,” Friedhold said despondently, brushing the rest of the files onto the floor. He looked up and met his comrade’s gaze. “I do not regret for a moment backing Lord Commissar York all those years ago, and I hope you two will see his vision through to its noble conclusion. But...”

He trailed off and Saeoth coldly filled in the blanks, “You tremble in the face of the future. Even the stalwart devotion of one of York’s most loyal soldiers has a limit.” In truth she had been watching his decline for awhile, but had chosen to stay silent. Karl, meanwhile, was staring at Friedhold in disbelief.

Friedhold nodded, accepting her harsh words. “Do not think of me as weak. I am just one of many casualties in our war. But I can no longer fulfill my duty… Please, allow an old man to rest.”

Karl came over and grabbed Friedhold’s arm tightly, “What about Lillian?”

Hearing his wife’s name caused Friedhold’s face to droop. His upper lip quivered as he said quietly, “Tell her… I died for the Empire. As we always knew I would.” He rested a hand on Karl’s shoulder. “When I first met you, Ludwig, I knew you were destined for great things. York is rarely wrong about people. His justice will shake this whole wretched Earth to its core, trust in him.”

Karl stared at the floor, face twisted into a pained expression. He knew Friedhold was making his choice out of a desire to avoid weakening the Commissariat. The loss of a comrade, though, of a friend who had always remained an immovable mountain in the face of all the challenges that confronted him, still cut into him. He was fully any one of them within the inner circle were lucky to be alive, in their line of work, but that fact didn’t soothe the ache of their loss.

Karl looked down, still making a deeply pained expression, knowing that Friedhold was making his choice out of a desire to avoid weakening the Commissariat. The loss of a comrade, of a friend, his mentor, who had always seemed to be an unmovable mountain in the face of all the challenges that confronted him was understandably difficult to process.

Taking a deep breath, Karl fished out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, the traditional state brand in dark red packaging, placing them on the desk next to them. “Then what can I say? You have clearly made up your mind.” He took a step back, putting a fist over his heart, “For the Empire.”

Friedhold saluted in kind and shook his head, “No, for a future free of the sins of the past.”

Karl hesitated once more before grasping Friedhold’s hand and pulling him in for a short half-hug. Friedhold patted the younger man’s shoulder and let him go, gently pushing him towards the door. Karl left without turning back, Saeoth staring at the dejected Commissar as she followed suit.

-

As the two crows exited the building, they were greeted with the sounds of sporadic gunfire. Distantly it rang throughout the stone city, echoing ominously in the winding streets and making it impossible to tell which direction the sounds were coming from. They walked over to one of the two waiting cars, a black, unmarked kubelwagon.

Saeoth stopped short of sitting in the vehicle and clicked her tongue. Her covered face made her expression impossible to read. Karl noticed, looking over at her and asking, “Something wrong?”

“The Cathedral is empty… correct?” Saeoth muttered in thought, staring up at the blue sky.

Karl shifted, leaning on the vehicle’s open door. “It should be. The priests agreed to evacuate with the Emperor… Why?”

Saeoth nodded, reaching into the backseat of the car and picking up one of the two machine pistols in the back. “The Ygddists maintain an archive of their own, as you know. I want to see if they left anything behind that might be useful for our own search.”

Karl watched as she loaded the weapon with a spare magazine before pulling back the firing mechanism. ‘I am sure I do not need to remind you, that your nature is a secret.”

“Oh do not worry, Ludwig.,” Saeoth bit back sharply as she turned toward the street. “Ashes cannot tell stories.” She left without needing to say anything else.

Karl sighed, having accepted that all of his allies were completely suicidal, watching her rush off toward the fighting. He took a seat behind the wheel and started its engine, quickly reversing before squealing the wheels as he took off toward the exit point.

-

Humming a classical melody to himself, Friedhold continued to pile up the detailed operational history of the organization that he had bound his life to. The floor around him was piled with folders, and he nearly tripped maneuvering around them. Satisfied he had gotten everything, he quickly left the building. Once outside, he took a moment to listen, but the city surrounding him was unesettlingly quiet. He took it as the battle reaching its conclusion; he headed over to the remaining staff car, popping open its trunk.

Inside was a can of ragoline, and he grabbed it, pausing for a moment to let the cold air calm his nerves before heading back to the archives. Friedhold began whistling to himself as he carefully began to douse the whole room, feeling as though he had finally, after so many years of service, been released from his duty.

At the same time that X-0’s strategist was delivering a final order to the younger enforcer in another part of the city, the Commissar struck a match and tossed it to the floor. In an instant, the room was illuminated with a serene warm light as the fire spread across it, burning away the disturbing history of the Imperial Secret Police—a history that Friedhold himself had ensured came to pass. As he watched the flames, he picked up the pack of cigarettes Karl had left for him, shaking one out.

He placed one in his mouth and realized that, ironically, he didn’t have a lighter. The thought made him laugh, and for once he felt unconcerned about the fate that awaited his beloved country. It had been his decision to turn away from a promising military career and become a glorified policeman, all in the belief he would root out the corruption that weakened the Empire.

When he had first met the soon-to-be Lord Commissar, Friedhold had finally found someone who held that something was wrong with the state of things. At the time, they had both been young men blinded by their own righteous morality that made their paths uncertain. But as he stood there, seeing everything they had built together go up in smoke, Friedhold felt oddly at ease knowing that his name would never be known.

His road had come to an end, and with that thought in mind, he wordlessly reached into his pocket, sliding out his box-framed pistol. Resolutely he shouted to no one, “Long Live Lord Commissar York! Long Live the Empire!” He shakily placed the cold barrel in his mouth, pointed against his palate. He exhaled sharply, squeezing his eyes shut before pulling the trigger.  
  


-

Chiara jerked herself toward the Hafen, doubled-over and clutching the detonator close to her chest. She whimpered incoherently, struggling to focus in her panic. All of her training and ruthless conditioning had failed to suppress the deeply-ingrained fears of being retired that had been instilled in her. Now that those fears had come to life, she couldn’t find the willpower to continue walking, let alone steady her hand enough to detonate the explosive inside of her at the right time.

She could taste iron in the back of her throat. With blood trickling down the side of her face, every fiber of her body fought for Chiara to stop. The shadow of the Hafen, her intended target, towered nearly two feet above her. As she got closer, she started to plead childishly, “It hurts… Nikola, it hurts …”

The buzzing in her ears was causing her vision to blur, further contributing to her growing anxiety. Such a powerful stabbing pain blended well into all the other aches that wracked her small frame as her medicine had nearly worn off.

Despite delighting in torturing others, Chiara was still incredibly young, and in her current situation she was overwhelmed by the thought of how unfair this was. Gone was the sadistic enforcer of Lord Belgar, and in her place was a scared kid who just wanted to go home; home, wherever that was. The cold metal hull of the Orcinus Magnus, or perhaps even the sanitary white walls of the Doctor’s laboratory she was so familiar with. But those places held no love for her. The only thing she wanted in this moment was to go back before this stupid war started. She had only ever done all this to please Lord Belgar, but now she—now she had nothing left. Failure after failure had left her utterly alone.

Before she knew it, a stream of tears had begun to mix with the blood dripping down her face. Chiara jerked to a stop only a few feet from the Federation’s tank. She brought her detonator up, trying to block out the deafening roar of the engine. She knew she had to make up for failing her master.

But as her thumb hovered over the red button, the vehicle came to life and began to reverse toward her. Belgar had clarified to her, in their final debriefing, the effective range of the low-yield ragnite bomb. Chiara knew if she would just press down, there was a good chance to destroy the tank. Yet she stood there, frozen, unable to follow through with her orders. She started to shake, face ashen in fear as the tank approached.

Time felt as though it had stopped. In that moment she saw images of her short, miserable life. It was not much to consider; most of them were of the post-operation recovery room in Belgar’s laboratory. Flashes of never-ending drug therapies, which left the inside of her mouth covered in a metallic-tasting film; the surgical alterations that slowly eroded her sense of self; and finally, the usage of prolonged sleep deprivation to increase her overall aggression. They were the only real memories the unfortunate girl had at all. She had been mindlessly devoted to Lord Belgar her entire life, but in that moment she struggled to find a comforting thought to help her muster the courage to follow through. She thought of her verbally abusive partner, who had been with her through it all. It was Nikola she’d woken up next to every time in the recovery room. Even if they struggled and butted heads on every mission, they still carved out some semblance of a life together in such a ruthless environment.  
  
  


Their warped bond was created through cruelty, but became a comfort and for Chiara. Seeing Nikola reduced to a nonverbal husk after all they’d been through was enough to spark an ember of rage within her. Impulsively, her hand jerked up to the radio receiver around her neck. Chiara wrenched it off, screeching into it, “No! I do not want to die!” She dropped her dunkel and fled into the cover of a nearby alleyway.

-

From the vantage point on the roof standing behind Foresti, Nikola watched blankly as her former partner disappeared into one of Schwartzgrad’s winding side streets. Her lips curved into a frown and she muttered to herself, “You idiot...”

Forseti interrupted her thoughts. “Hmph.” He turned around with a hard look on his face. “It doesn’t matter. We are proceeding with the plan.”

His dark eyes narrowed as if he expected her to run off too. Nikola remained firmly fixed in place, and only manged to respond with a single word. “Yes.”

-

Forseti was singular in focus as he and the remnants of his men boarded the Centurion. He could care less about the Empire, about the Federation, about political consequences of his actions. His only remaining concern, as the battle overtook the city, was his reason for joining this miserable fight at all. His shining beacon in this desolate world. All of this pain and effort was merely purgatory, until he could rescue his Angie; even just seeing her smile again could save him.

If Heinrich Belgar stood atop a mountain of corpses, given the nature of his cruel work, then Forseti stood by his side, kicking aside outstretched hands with his boot. The war had warped his mind, made him paranoid and righteous. Even among the suffering of the other valkyria within the Doctor’s grasp, or the young girls who stood closest by his side, Forseti offered them no sympathy.

Forseti side-eyed the girl behind him with disgust. He didn’t particularly cared what happened to them by this point. If she wasn’t going to run away like her useless partner, then he could only use her to make sure he completed his goal.

The girl’s incessant agitation annoyed him. Nikola trailed him, massaging her wrists absentmindedly. Running away, for her, was incomprehensible. Her mind ran in circles, Belgar’s cold reminder of ‘ _no more failures_ ’ repeating in her mind like a broken record. She wouldn’t— _couldn’t—_ fail like Chiara had.

She had not even allowed herself to grieve for the loss of the closest person she had to a sister. Chiara might have chosen to save herself, but for Nikola it still constituted a great loss and the only emotion she could allow herself to feel at all was powerful sense of sadness. Anxiously she followed Forseti, chewing on the inside of her cheek until the familiar taste of blood made her stop. As he pushed open the large, steel door to the engine room which creaked open she flinched hearing the noise.

A haunting blue light flashed brightly, causing her to wince. She looked down hopelessly at the grated floor. Unsympathetic, Forseti addressed her as one might a guard dog. “Hold them off here, by any means necessary.”

“Yes…” Nikola’s voice was monotone and she felt as though she was floating, watching the scene from outside her body. He left her, hoping to find his prize. Hearing footsteps, she brought up her dunkel, staring intently at the entrance. Sure enough a squad of the rangers rushed into the room. Seeing them Nikola dejectedly mumbled, “Hold the fort… Any means necessary.”

She laughed, realizing her situation was hopless. Reaching down, she put a hand on her own detonator. “Lord Belgar…” Slowly her face contorted into an unnatural, forced smile, “Yes… Any means necessary.” A strange relief came to Nikola as it dawned on her that dying would mean she would finally be allowed to rest.

-

The brief skirmish barely lasted thirty minutes before the final X-0 soldier crumpled to the floor. His machine pistol clattered against the metal grate, drowned out by the hum of the engine. Alone was a frantic, unhinged Nikola chasing after her target and quietly repeating over and over, “Hold them off here… Hold them off here… Hold them off here.”

She was desperate to die, to be allowed to rest. With her detonator clasped firmly in her hand, Nikola charged after the brunet leader of the rangers. She could hardly focus, though; in her tunnel vision, the only thing she could see was the entrance to where the valkyria was being held. In such a state she did not see the dark-eyed sniper taking aim. When the shot rang out, Nikola narrowly avoided being hit directly. Instead the bullet grazed her right cheek, causing her to stumble backwards and lose her balance.

  
  
Nikola cried out, panicked, and fell straight onto her butt, dropping her precious Dunkel which hit the ground a few feet from her. All at once her suppressed terror bubbled up. She reached up, touching the fresh blood running down her cheek. Like Chiara, being suddenly confronted with the prospect of dying was terrifying. Nikola desperately crawled over to her crossbow, scrambling to grab it so she could get away.

Wide-eyed, she looked across the walkway to the other side of the room, seeing the sniper taking aim at her. She froze in place, shutting her eyes tightly, at least hoping her enemies would be merciful. Yet the second shot never came; Nikola slowly opened her eyes to see the blonde ranger carrying a mortar gesture to the sniper, who nodded.

  
  
The two of them, no longer seeing the girl on the ground as a threat, moved to apprehend Forseti. Realizing she had been brushed away like refuse, Nikola felt a lump in her throat as it settled on her what had just happened. Weakly she mumbled, “Ah, ng… I failed.”

Now the pain was starting radiate across her whole body, and the industrial room around her seemed to blur. Dizzily she fell flat back onto the grate, whimpering, “Why does everything hurt so much…”

Gritting her teeth Nikola was overwhelmed by the crushing despair. Despite her best efforts, she had failed wholly and could no longer consider herself any better than her cowardly partner. The thought was enough to push her over the edge. Dejectedly, she struggled into a sitting position while clutching her head in her hands. She pleaded to no one, “Chiara please… come back… s-sorry, I—”

Her morose words were met by the reverberating hum of the engine and the creeping numbness that slowly blanketed her whole body. As her sensation of feeling disappeared entirely the words ‘ _No more failures’_ came to mind. She was out of options.

A forlorn smile crawled to her face. Nikola solemnly muttered, “Yes, Lord Belgar… I shall return to you…” She came to her feet, nearly falling flat on her face in the process as she tried to steady herself. She hobbled away, knowing there was only one thing left to do for a failure like her. She clutched her detonator to her chest.

-

Taking cover in the shade of the nearby alleyway, Chiara cowered, clutching her own arms. She whined through gritted teeth and struggled to catch her breath. She slammed her head against the stone wall, exhaling sharply. The pain stung, but it gave her something to focus on and clear the rest of the thoughts in her mind.

The battle was over; she had failed spectacularly and yet, despite her disobedience, was still alive. It was incomprehensible. She really was entirely lost now. What was she supposed to do now, without her orders? Aiming for the center of the small splatter of blood on the tan wall, Chiara smashed her head into it as hard as her weak state would allow.

The second crack caused spots to appear in her vision, and she closed her eyes, trying to steady her breathing. To suddenly be free of her old life was a shock, something Chiara had never could have adequately prepared for. A stabbing headache caused her to claw at her head, moaning as she writhed on the ground.

In her brief haze of agony, she was certain she was about to die. A cold voice dragged her back out of her head, the rest of the world falling silent.

_‘T_ _his was your choice, you moron’  
_

Chiara craned her neck back and was certain she could see her partner’s black boots. “Nikola?”

‘ _So what are you going to do now, stupid? Why not just hurry up and die?’_ There was a ghostly giggle. ‘ _Perhaps I should finish you off myself…’  
_

Chiara jerked up, feeling her whole stomach churn. She put a hand down to steady herself and spun around. But there was no one else in the alleyway. She blinked, looking around, before it hit her. She knew her next course of action.

Struggling to her feet, she growled, “I am not dead yet, you bitch… I will show you.” Chiara started to limp forward while muttering, “Hold on Nikola, I am coming.” Though she wasn’t even sure her partner would want to see her after her grand display of cowardice, she was still determined to at least try to save Nikola.


	2. Part 0: Ruina Imperii (Chapter 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It might seem odd, but when I put this prequel chapter together, I placed a limit on how much room I would give myself to change the ending of VC4. When I started writing Belgar’s side I found that, given his irrelevance in the game’s story, he didn’t really need much transition into what I felt his final act should have entailed. More of Squad E dies, both named and other side members who aren’t mentioned, considering a suicide mission would have had a higher cost than one Darcsen guy. It is worth noting that no one was killed out of spite, but rather the fact that I liked their squad stories. In the case of Riley, Heinrich would absolutely be flabbergasted to see that she beat him to the punch on Albert’s research, though that is a surprise for him later.  
> (Editor's note: Sorry this update got out so late, this past week kind of snuck right by me. The next few chapters are going to be side content, mostly so the author can get caught back up on his side of things. As always, thanks for reading!)  
> Profile art by @splatsune on tumblr.

Saeoth paused at the entrance of the cathedral, turning to stare at the massive Centurion. She found it particularly lucky that the machine’s jagged course cutting into Schwartzgrad had missed the ancient Yggdist temple completely.

She was acutely aware that in the Centurion’s proximity, she could be vaporized instantly. The idea brought a smile to her face. Life was a curse; this cross of deification she bore was never one Saeoth asked to carry. Death was of no concern to her, though she had made a pact to see Plan Z to its conclusion, and she wasn’t planning on intentionally breaking that promise. Saeoth ascended up the steps towards the wooden doors, but stopped upon hearing the click of a gun. A woman’s voice commanded her, “You there! Halt!”

The Pale Crow stopped, perplexed. She had not seen anyone else on the Plaza and had assumed the rangers were aboard their ship—making preparations to vaporize the city, no doubt. Though it would make sense for a skeleton force to be guarding the perimeter. She slowly turned to face them.

Staring up at her were two Federation shocktroopers, one with platinum blonde hair and bangs swept to the right side of her face. The other was a tomboy with short brown hair and green eyes. Neither of the women recognized the valkyria’s uniform, or the small black crow pinned on her peak cap; it was the first time the rangers had encountered a member of the Commissariat.

The two soldiers split apart, keeping their weapons trained on her. The blonde one chided, “What are you, some kind of officer?” Her eyes moved to the gun hanging loosely off Saeoth’s shoulder.

“Strange. It acts as though it has a right to speak to me.” Saeoth said listlessly, staring down at them with an unfeeling gaze. Her red eyes began to glow even more intensely.

The tomboy frowned at her condescending words and said, “Just shoot her already, Viola. The battle isn’t over.”

Viola nodded, taking aim with her weapon. “You’re right.” A short burst from both shocktroopers’ machine pistols punctuated the silence that had descended on the plaza. The rangers went pale as their bullets stopped short of the pale crow’s body, blocked by a shimmering blue haze. The bullets clinked noisily onto the stone steps.

Saeoth cocked her head to the side, unfazed. “Finished?” she sneered as she took a single step down, hunched over like a beast, right arm extended towards them. Her eyes flashed a deep crimson, and with a deep gutteral tone she growled, “Insects… must be crushed underfoot before they can multiply.”

As if from thin air, white, spiraled spear appeared in her outstretched hand. Unlike other valkyria’s weapons, Saeoth’s was similar to the stalk of a rose, covered in thick barbs that lined its entire body. Without pause she wrapped her hand around the staff, allowing the barbs to stab through it causing a trickle of blood to run down, dripping onto the steps below. With a beastly groan she jerked her body forward. “Truthfully, compared to my sisters… I am rather pathetic.” Another flash of red and she reared back her arm, throwing the spear at the blonde ranger as she attempted to get behind cover.

Viola let out an agonized gasp, feeling the barbs pierce straight through her armor, ripping through her lower back and impaling her into the ground. She groaned, attempting to push off the spear, only to slowly slide back down. Emmy stared in shock for a second before shouting out, “Viola!” The girl rushed over to her, wide-eyed and trembling as she tried to save her comrade.

Saeoth paused, sneering at their display of friendship. In the blink of an eye, a new spear appeared in her hand. Disgust in her voice, she growled, “Ugh… Human compassion. Is there a more reprehensible sight?” She dragged her hand down across her weapon’s thorns, eye twitching at the sharp pain in her palms. In response to her ancient blood, the spear’s form shifted ever-so-slightly.

Emmy did not even have to time to react; suddenly she, too, was pinned. She moaned, suddenly feeling something pierce straight to her body as well. She looked down to see a spear protruding up from the ground. Weakly, she attempted to push off of it, but merely succeeded in slipping further down. Saeoth smirked, admiring her work, but her expression fell into a frown as a siren blared across the empty city. A man’s voice proclaimed a ceasefire in effect while a treaty was negotiated. Saeoth huffed in annoyance and waited patiently.

The two embedded spears burst into vibrant blue fire, and the bodies skewered on them combusted. The fire scorched the pavement beneath them, sizzling the snow around them. It only took a moment for the concentrated flame to blacken the bodies, and Saeoth stared for another minute as they were reduced to ash along with the weapons themselves. The fire disappated, and their ashes dusted the stones. Saeoth felt dizziness wash over her, and she adjusted her footing to keep from falling over. Gently she cradled her arm as a blue haze engulfed her, but stopped herself short of healing fully. In anger she spat out, “A true descendant of my ancestors would not cower in the face of oblivion…”

She left her palms bloodied and sliced up, tucking one hand between the buttons of her coat where it rested limply. Unwilling to risk being seen by anyone else, she limped up the steps and pushed into the doors of the church and disappeared from the plaza.

-

Heinrich sat behind his desk in his warmly-lit office, pouring over a book in front of him with a hand on his chin. He could hardly focus on what was written on the page, mind running through the potential outcomes for his day. A small radio on the corner of the conference table filled the silence with chatter about the developing situation on the surface. The glass of bourbon he had been nursing was nearly empty; as he reached for it, his hand hesitated next to the framed black and white photograph of Albert Miller next to the small table lamp.

With a hint of sarcasm, Heinrich smirked and said, “Well, Al… it seems my hubris got the better of me. It appears going along with Operation Cyngus was a grave miscalculation.” He had hoped that the Federation’s suicide mission would be a sufficient distraction to draw the eye of the Imperial military, yet the old fools had dismissed his report as an exaggeration. Now he was running out of time, and with a ceasefire declared, it wouldn’t be long until Imperial Commissars were demanding his trial for putting Schwartzgrad at risk.

Thinking out loud, he said, “Do not fret, Al. I am sure with our combined intellect we will be able to come up with an escape plan.” Abruptly the voices on the radio fell silent, and he glanced over at it expectantly.

The smooth, sultry voice of a woman spoke: _This is Commissar Hedvig. By order of His Majesty, King of Kings, our Emperor has declared all surviving military units within the Schwartzgrad area are hereby ordered to stand down. The Imperial Commissariat is assuming control of the situation._

“Ah. Finally making your move, I see, Monty. I am surprised it took you this long,” Belgar said with a smile, thought he was fully aware that he was now boxed in on all sides.

He leaned back in his chair, holding his almost empty glass, he said, “No, no, Al. I doubt we can pin all of this on Forseti. Though, he has served his purpose admirably…” He trailed off, considering the tenacity of his rival. “After all, as I have mentioned, Monty is not a man who believes in… half-measures.”

He wracked his brain for a solution to his dire situation. The doctor was now more than certain his original plan was no longer a viable option. To escape Schwartzgrad he would have to travel light, which tragically meant leaving behind his beloved Orcinus Magnus and Lophis, along with many other treasured creations. As for X-0 itself, such a unit could easily be replaced; the lives of so many soldiers would be sacrificed to ensure he would not come to harm. After all, the loss of a genius of his caliber would be an incredible blow to the scientific community.

The first task at hand would be to decide what he could actually take with him. Deep in thought, he stood up and walked over to the cabinet positioned to the right of the conference table. The foul-mouthed Vinnish Agent he had been in contact with had made it clear that the United States was more than willing to bargain with such a high profile member of the Imperial Ruling Class, particularly a well-known scientist. However, the Vinnish state did have interests that outweighed others—anything with military application took priority. While the agent expressed intrigue at the idea of using ragnite implosion to propel rockets through the atmosphere, he suggested Belgar present his work regarding the conditioning of obedient soldiers, as it had a more tangible and less theoretical quality.

The idea made Heinrich nauseous considering he had no passion left for the project that had resulted in his two devoted lieutenants. In fact, unknown to both girls, he had privately asked the Emperor for permission to scrap the undertaking, raising concerns that it was an all-around waste of resources in comparison to his work with valkyria. Yet, both times the esteemed monarch dismissed his request, holding firm to the notion that a diversity of wonder weapons would win the war.

Having a spirited debate in his head, Heinrich’s hand lingered over the spine of the dark red binders. It wasn’t as though he had much of a choice, given that most of his other research manged to be even less savory. Among his research history had been a brief attempt at weaponizing a highly infectious contagion, a study that required the use of Darcsen test subjects. He took a deep breath and sighed, pulling out the binders and placing them on the table behind him.

He took a second to remind himself to be less negative about this whole ordeal; at the very least, Nikola was a partial success—completely obedient, incapable of independent thought. Though as a result, she was almost entirely dependent on him for direction, and in many cases she lacked the ability to improvise on the battlefield.

There was a bigger issue posed by presenting her alone to the United States. Both girls were effected by a troublesome phenomenon that could only be properly understood as separation anxiety. When apart for too long, they would fall into mental decline. In the case of Nikola, it was signaled by deeply concerning emotional instability that made her erratic and unreliable in her interpretation of his orders.

Heinrich found the problem frustratingly contradictory. When together, Nikola and Chiara argued incessantly, oftentimes failing to complete missions to satisfaction simply because they could not get along. Yet once divided, both girls’ efficiency bottomed out entirely, making them useless in the field.

The reality of their conundrum had been the back of Heinrich’s mind when he had given Chiara the impossible task of defending Schwartzgrad alone. Retirement was an arduous process that required more paperwork than he was willing to fill out for the Imperial State, so it was simply easier to abandon her in the path of the enemy.

Heinrich shook his head slowly. It was logical. He would just have to sedate Nikola long enough to turn her over to the United States Armed Services, and then he could move on to more fruitful avenues of research. He quickly grabbed two thinner blue binders which, unlike the others, were packed to the brim with all sorts of theorems, diagrams, and incoherent ramblings about his overall lack of success with rocketry.

At the very least, he was confident that a change of scenery to the more scientifically-literate United States would allow him to get a better handle on his creative energies. Heinrich scooped up the four binders and returned to his desk. Now it was just a matter of collecting Nikola and slipping out before anyone noticed.

Given that the Empire’s Northern fleet still had many of its destroyers in tact, escaping through the Crystal Sea was no longer an option. That left the more treacherous option: escaping on foot from the city. But to do so would require a sufficient distraction. It would have to be impossible to ignore and force the Imperial Commissars to hesitate long enough for him to slip away.

Mulling his options over, Heinrich downed the rest of the glass of bourbon before reaching down to the bottom drawer of finely carved wooden desk. He opened it and pushed around several loose papers. Inside was a small side-arm along with another photograph, one of another memory; not as painful as his feelings for Albert, but equally discomforting. Carefully he removed the pistol and slid it into his coat pocket, satisfied to, at the very least, go out on his own terms.

He sighed and plucked the second picture from the haphazard stack. With a wistful look in his dull, gray eyes studied it closely. A crude concrete launchpad was in the background, and in the foreground stood a man dressed in a long black coat holding out both his arms in celebration of a successful test of a prototype propulsion system which had briefly lifted a rocket off the ground for around thirty seconds.

“So, Monty. I suppose if it were up to you, I would go out in a blaze of glory,” Heinrich said dryly as he stared at the back of the now-Lord Commissar’s head. Briefly he found himself missing better times, when the two of men had combined their respective resources in the name of advancing the entire world into a new golden age. “Unfortunately, that is not an option. Tell me, how would you get out of this mess? Al has not been very forthcoming.”

He paused thoughtfully, listening to the sounds of the submarine, After a few minutes his eyes widened, a smile drawing to his face. “Hmm… I see. A gambit , certainly. Though I doubt the United States would be too thrilled to know I risked the capture of their A2 series…” He put a hand on his chin. “No, you are right… this ceasefire will serve as the perfect cover.”

The sound of his office door opening interrupted his ramblings. Belgar looked up, quickly hiding the photo. He watched apathetically as a distressed Nikola hobbled into the room, wearing a plastic smile and silently taking her position behind his desk.

Heinrich stared straight ahead, knowing that fully acknowledging her would muddy her purpose as a tool. He asked coldly, “I take it Forseti will not be joining us?”

“…Gone…” Nikola said weakly, forcing herself to stand at attention, though there was nothing she could do to hide her tremor. She was struggling by the pull of her thoughts in opposite directions, of whether to detonate herself to stop the pain, or to cling to the incomprehensible, childish glimmer of hope that Chiara wasn’t going to just abandon her. Her indecision left her paralyzed, panicked and unsure. Instead her body continued in the absence of her attention. Her fingers felt cold as she realized the only way she would be able to move forward would be to disobey the loyalty that had been so deeply ingrained in her.

Heinrich continued to stare at the opened door boredly. “Unfortunate, but I suppose it was to be expected...” At the very least, he would be rid of another unreliable variable in the equation. “And Chiara?”

A lump formed in Nikola’s throat and she choked out an answer. “Failed…”

He nodded coldly, standing up. “How disappointing. Then, it is time for us to make our exit.” He walked to halfway to the door, stopping next to the conference table. “I thought I was clear that the Dunkel was a valuable piece of equipment. We will have to address its loss at later.”

She muffled a gasp, which turned into a choked whimper behind her clenched jaw, and watched hopelessly as her master disappeared through the door without a single glance.

-

Chiara heard the announcement as well and quickened her pace, almost tripping as she slid down snowy embankment into the basin which led to the inlet of the Crystal Sea. There was just one problem: she did not actually have plan for how to get aboard the Orcinus Magnus. She was smart enough to know coming in through the front door would not end well.

Luckily Chiara did not have to think about it too much; as she reached the edge of the frozen water, it started to crack noisily, splitting apart into large chunks as Belgar’s personal submarine roared to the surface. Startled, she fell backwards and landed in the waist-deep snow with a frustrated groan.

Nothing was going right for her. She watched with wide-eyes as harpoons shot out, embedding themselves into the back of the Centurion. The Magnus’s engines came to life to life as it pulled the Snowcruiser toward the canal.

Diving to the side, she narrowly avoided being crushed by the ship. Chiara watched as the two vessels made for the inlet. She shouted out, “W-What?” Though it was drowned out entirely by the roaring of the two machines. As it became clear her only home was leaving, her shock morphed into an inconsolable rage. Chiara jumped to her feet, screaming, “Where the hell do you think you’re going!?” She scrambled after it, cursing wildly all the way. A few minutes later, the Federation’s Rangers charged down in pursuit as well, not willing to allow their ship to be stolen right out from under them.

-

The drug-addled remnants of X-0 proved hardly sufficient to hold back the determined rangers. After a short skirmish, they were thoroughly wiped out. Back in his office, Heinrich finished off his second glass bourbon and glanced upwards as an explosion from one of the ship’s main ragnite engines, which had caused the lights to flicker. “Still well within expected parameters. Only a little further.”

Once the shaking subsided, he shoved the binders into a suitcase, snapping it shut. As if just remembering Nikola was still present he said, “I expect you to follow my instructions to the letter. There can be no mistakes in this case.”

“Yes,” she answered, voice quivering. She was still aware enough to know something was off about her master’s plan. His usual vagueness was to be expected, but with the surrounding chaos, it made his words unnerving. She could only infer that something special was in store for her. She was trying to convince herself to give up on the defiant urges and continue following her master, if only to suppress the nauseating panic bubbling up. She stared blankly at the floor, wondering if whatever was coming was deserved, for never being able to tell Chiara how much she meant to her.

“Good,” Heinrich said curtly as the whole office shook violently again and the metal hull whined under the immense stress. “It’s time to move onto phase two.” He straightened up, an insufferably smug grin on his face. He was wholly convinced his plan would succeed. “After all, genius is one percent revelation, ninety-nine percent improvisation.”

-

The Ranger squad’s leader, Claude Wallace, watched wordlessly as the Centurion slowed to a halt on a flat plane of ice near the city, after the Imperial submarine released its cables. There was an uneasy breeze blowing, and his tactical mind was certain that the enemy was up to something.

The sound of footsteps caused him to turn, seeing Minerva approaching him. The fiery redhead stopped and said, “There is a ceasefire in effect. Let the enemy make the first move.”

Claude nodded in agreement. “Right.” His eyes widened as he saw two squads of Imperial Soldiers, members of the garrison defending Schwartzgrad, walk out from behind the stone wall and head toward them.

His squad turned, holding their guns uncomfortably. One of the steel-clad men stepped forward, saluting with a hand over his heart. “X-0 has chosen treason. We are under direct orders from his majesty to assist the reclamation of your ship.”

“Y-You are,” Claude said, though it came out like a half-question. He was surprised to hear the voice of one of the soldiers he had shared a hot spring with when lost on the Crystal sea.

The soldier grinned underneath his helmet, cocking his head. “I’d wished our reunion would be under more fortuitous circumstances. But there is no time to talk. Whatever Doctor Belgar is planning puts our negotiations at risk.”

The crackle of Claude’s radio interrupted them, and it was soon clear that the remaining soldiers of X-0 had boarded the centurion from under the water. In an act of unity, Imperial Troops and Federation Ranger’s deployed together to put an end to the rogue Doctor’s plan.

-

Aboard the snowcruiser, Heinrich order his troops to take up positions and prepare to defend the vessel itself. For that purpose he had ordered the usage of the last of his now-decimated division’s store of stimulants, hoping the drug would buy him a few more minutes.

With Nikola following quietly behind, he made for the engine room. Soon he was standing only a few feet from the circular steel door marked A2. In a grandiose gesture, he held out his ragnite staff and offered a partial bow. “Thank you, my dear, for aiding my final performance.”

He took a moment to appreciate the magnificent azure light before frowning, remembering that Nikola was still present. “Is there a problem? I believe my instruction were clear.”

Nikola remained motionless, nauseating hatred bubbling up from her chest. She let herself hate the man who had outwardly presented himself as her father. The man who had raised her, indoctrinated her, tortured her until the slightest thought of disobedience gave her a visceral, painful response. Yet she found herself unable to activate the detonator she clutched in her quivering hand. If she could only press it, the pain would stop. The two of them would vanish, and this entire city would disappear. She would never have to hurt again. He could never hurt her. The one thought that troubled her more was the idea that Chiara was not yet out of the blast radius. Wherever her deserting companion had gone, even if she’d chosen to abandon Nikola, she wanted to know at least one of them could survive. It was the only solace she could give to make up for the years of abuse.

Quietly, she mumbled to Lord Belgar, “No… problem.”

“Then leave us,” Heinrich said dismissively, waving her away. As she limped down the hall, he began to plug in several cables to a small device he had brought with him from the Magnus. It was a tedious yet simple project, and only took a few minutes to set up. Carefully he began to tweak the dials, wary that even one mistake would result in a total meltdown, killing him along with pretty much everyone else in the general area.

The image of the arrogant noblemen of Schwartzgrad reacting to knowledge that all their wealth went up in flames caused a malicious smile to come to his face. They had all looked down on him for so long; it was the least he could do. The idea quickly faded, and with it, Heinrich’s smile. He muttered to himself, “Hmm, no… I think not, Al.”

He adjusted the dials, and then a haunting blue light filled the room as the engine started to hum nosily. “As much as I would like to see whose formula was right in the end…” He finished, stepping back to admire the glow, finding it fittingly beautiful for his exit. “…I still have so much work to do. With any luck, this method of delivery will be rendered obsolete when I am finished.”

He lingered for a moment, still basking in the glory of the azure light. Only grudgingly did he pull himself away when remembering how little time he had. Outside of the engine room he found several of his soldiers still waiting for their final order. Heinrich stuck out his hand and smoothly said, “Your loyalty is appreciated, Walter. Are you certain you are prepared?”

Walter, whose face was obscured behind his black helmet, took the doctor’s hand and the two shook. “Of course. My oath was to you, not the Empire.”

“Very good. The Lophius should treat you well,” Heinrich said, pleased with the man’s obedience, before reaching into his inner jacket pocket. “Ah, before I forget.” He removed a vial of white pills and dropped them into Walter’s outstretched hand. “An extra ration. As promised.”

“Thank you, my Lord,” Walter said, greedily pulling back and salivating at the sight of the drug.

Heinrich nodded slightly, then gestured to the remaining two men, X-0 soldiers who had already changed into civilian dress. As the final battle began, the three of them managed to slip around the Rangers’ line unnoticed, heading back into Schwartzgrad.

-

From her vantage point, Chiara could see whole battlefield, and her jaw dropped as she watched as the Lophius was deployed to intercept the combined forces of both the Imperial Army and the Federation’s Rangers. While she was not privy to Lord Belgar’s plan, the deployment of such a prized invention meant something had gone terribly wrong. Remaining crouched on top of an elevated glacier, the former lieutenant was getting increasingly anxious now that she was not entirely sure where her partner was.

A whistle from above pulled Chiara from her brooding, and an explosion from a mortar caused her ears to ring. Once the noise subsided she tried to follow the arc and saw an X-0 grenadier kneeling behind a chunk of ice.

With a sadistic grin, Chiara crept over to the man and unsheathed one of her knives. She waited for him to fire again before barreling toward him, stabbing her combat knife straight underneath his armpit where his breastplate gave way to leather. She snarled in his ear, “Where is Nikola?”

He grunted and struggled, but she twisted the knife, causing him to groan. “Y-You–”

Chiara punched the back of his helmet and screeched hysterically, “Where is she?! Tell me!”

When he still did not respond, she pushed the knife deeper, causing a spurt of red blood to stain the snow. Frustrated by his silence, Chiara flipped the top off her quiver and pulled out a single bolt with a purple vial at the end. Holding in front of his face she whispered, “You know what this is. Do not make me use it.”

The grenadier attempted to push away again. In response, she kneed him the leg, digging her spiked knee pad mercilessly into his flesh. Finally he shouted out, “Sh-She was suppose to guard the engine room—augh!”

“See? That was not too hard…” Chiara said, pulling her knife out of him. “Thank you… hehe.” Without hesitating, she jammed the bolt into his neck, causing him to gasp. As the poison took effect he started to gurgle and sieze, white foam bubbling out from his mouth. Unsatisfied with his suffering, the crazed girl stabbed him repeatedly between his armor plates until he finally stopped moving. His body thudded against the snowy ground and sunk into the snow. Still furious, she stomped the back of his head until she felt something crack underfoot.

Stepping off of the dead man, Chiara noticed a small vial of ragnaid had rolled out from his pants pocket. Knowing it was a painkiller, she knelt down and snatched it from the ground before heading in the direction of the Centurion, which was beginning to glow ominously

-

Nikola knew she was out of options and entirely alone. She latched desperately onto the idea that there could be no more failures. The words gave her direction, pushing her towards an inescapable end. In the gloom of the Centurion’s steel corridors, a despondent smile plastered on her face, she once again found herself in pursuit of one of the Rangers. The winding halls all looked the same, and the numbness that had clung to her limbs was starting to make her uncertain of whether she was dreaming or not. The blonde Ranger from before turned a corner, and Nikola was unable to stop in time. She hit the wall with a thud, screeching something unintelligible as she pushed herself off and continued chase.

At the entrance of the engine room, the young Ranger turned around and held up her pistol. “Stay back!” she shouted out, training her gun on her pursuer. She hesitated, seeing Nikola’s expression, and the thought bubbled up in her mind once more, _what had this war cost?_

But Nikola was past the point of caring. Giggled weakly, she muttered, “Eheh… You are the enemy.” The short girl brought up the Karbiner rifle she had been issued and shifted to better carry the weight, finding the gun a little too heavy to use comfortably. She held it limply in her hands and did not even bother to aim down the sights.

The Federation ranger bit her lip, hands shaking both from exhaustion and fear. She exhaled and steadied herself, knowing she had to get past. People were counting on her. Resolutely, she commanded, “Stop!”

In the tense moment, the two locked eyes. The Ranger could tell her opponent was shaking like a leaf. She felt a brief twinge of sympathy, but before words could be exchanged, an explosion from outside of the Centurion caused the entire hull to buckle and the lights to flicker off. The red emergency lights quickly snapped on, bathing the hall in crimson. Nikola finally snapped, losing her nerve, and pulled the trigger.

The Ranger did the same, and two shots rang out, echoing off the steel walls. Nikola had barely been able to aim with all her trembling, and her bullet missed the Federation soldier completely, ricocheting off the door behind her.

Nikola felt a white-hot pain radiating from her exposed side, right under where her carapace stopped. She could feel the sensation crawling up as she was starting to register the pain. She paled, moaning, “…h-hurts…” Collapsing to her knees and gripping her side, she struggled to focus as her ears rang.

The vessel shook again, and the sound of something important tearing free from the rest of the Snowcruiser was deafening. Nikola weakly mumbled, “No… I cannot…” Holding against wall for balance, the Federation Ranger clutched her side and headed for the door. She turned to leave and Nikola mustered a fleeting, “W – Wait…”

“Sorry. Someone I love needs me,” the Ranger answered, worrying that she might be too late.

Nikola watched the soldier’s form retreat through the steel door, her words reverberating in the Imperial girl’s head. The statement was like a punch to the gut, the last tap needed to shatter her fragile mental state. All the air rushed from her lungs and she curled in on herself, the freezing steel floor seeping through to her skin, warm blood soaking into her shirt. She let out a dry sob and whimpered softly, “C-Chiara…”

In that moment, she might have just been able to admit she missed her sister. She squeezed her eyes shut, finding the darkness consoling. She felt so tired. After so many years of performing, of being the soldier Lord Belgar had wanted, she wanted nothing more in this moment than to rest. Yet, just as she was beginning to accept the idea that she was going to die, someone rushed past her. Shots echoed down the hall, followed by the sound of an intense scuffle. She heard a choked cry, and the sound of a body thudding on the floor, but she remained still through all of it, eyes still shut.

A voice pulled Nikola back from the edge, and it took her a second to realize the voice was real. “Giving up already? I did not realize you were so weak.”

Nikola slowly opened her eyes to see her blood-spattered partner clutching the hilt of her knife and shakily walking over to her. Convinced it was a dream she mumbled uncertainly, “Chiara?”

Chiara grinned and roughly pushed her arm. “Who do you think, dumbass?” As if just remembering, she hastily pulled out the vial of ragnaid she had stolen and held it next to her comrade.

Seeing her intent, Nikola suddenly became resistant and tried to pull herself away. “W-Why are you here? You failed…”

“Can you stop being so stupid?” Chiara grumbled, shooting out a hand to hold her wounded comrade in place. Deciding to try to twist the lever at the bottom of the glass container, she watched as a blue light slowly engulfed Nikola, whose breathing started to slow. “You are not getting rid of me that easily.”

Despite feeling better, Nikola still protested, “But you failed… Lord Belgar –”

Seeing she was trying to reach for her own detonator, Chiara wrenched it away. “Be quiet, or you will regret it.”

They struggled for a moment, and Nikola let her forehead rest against Chiara’s chest. She finally relaxed, finding comfort in her companion’s arms. Quietly she whispered, “Chiara, I-I—”

Another explosion cut her off and Chiara clamored to her feet, jerking Nikola up as well. Slinging the blonde girl’s arm over her shoulder, she shouted, “We have to leave!”

“Augh…” Nikola grunted and nearly collapsed again, but Chiara caught her. Together the two girls hobbled out onto the deck of the Centurion. Outside they noticed that the once-vibrant blue glow had started to fade as Belgar’s device began to initiate its shut down process.

Wordlessly Chiara helped Nikola get into position to slide off the hull of the ship into a mound of snow below. At the same time, the Hafen skidded to a halt behind them. Unwilling to risk a fight, Nikola dropped down and Chiara followed quickly.

-

In their haggard state, neither girl was capable of going very far. Nikola and Chiara only made it to the wall that circled the basin before collapsing in exhaustion. From where they fell, they both watched silently as the ice damaged from the fighting finally gave way underneath the Centurion, and it sunk into the water below.

Nikola could feel the rumble of the ship as it sunk. “We… we are alive…?” she muttered in disbelief, though her face sunk when she realized now that she couldn’t fulfill her master’s final request. “Lord Belgar… I-I,” her breath caught, and she choked out, “failed…” She curled in on herself, wincing as the movement agitated her wound.

In an uncharacteristic display of gentleness, Chiara wrapped an arm around her partner. It was starting to dawn on her that the Doctor probably wouldn’t survive. She shivered instinctively and whispered, “This… is my fault… I am sorry.”

_-_

Two short hours later, the dust finally began to settle over the destitute survivors of a theater of war that would soon be left out of history. A convoy of black vehicles marked with the outline of a silver crow on their sides entered Arch Plaza from the North. In the lead were two heavily armored cars, unique from others in the service of the Empire’s military; notably, they bore eight wheels, an extended engine deck and front mounted PaK guns. The model was rarely seen on the battlefield as it was primarily used by the Imperial Commissariat, which had a need for highly mobile recon vehicles that would allow its men to reach every corner of the vast country, regardless of whether conditions.

These were followed by several light armor open-top, box-framed cars with sloped hulls, crewed by the Commissars themselves. At the end of the haunting parade was two kubelwagons and two transport trucks, which parked themselves at the ruins of the fountain.

Enforcers wearing unmarked obsidian armor disembarked, forming into squads of three and fanning out across the city. Their authority to arrest all parties responsible for the disaster that had befallen the grand city of Schwartzgrad was derived from the Lord Commissar, a man that had reached the limit of his seemingly boundless patience.

Once the soldiers dispersed into the city, the Imperial Commissars, adorned in their long black overcoats, exited their cars as well. They lined up to form a monolithic mass of merciless faces, a murder of crows gathered to pick the capital clean of traitors.

They stood immobile for a moment, waiting for the tell-tale rhythmic tapping of their boss. All eyes moved to the right as the sound came, and like the flutter of wings, each Commissar raised their right hands over their hearts in salute.

Hunched over, piercing blue eyes stared scornfully behind dark rectangular frames at the murder of Crows that gathered before him. His aged face was washed with the deep pain of rage and grief. He waved down their salute with a gloved hand, then approached his loyal flock, standing taller with tense shoulders. He placed both hands on his silver-headed, dark wooden cane, and addressed the Commissars in his distinct accent. “It seems as though the… maggots have burrowed too deeply into our Motherland,” he said before pausing to scan the faces of his devoted followers: an imposing redheaded woman who had boredom written plainly on her face; a scarred man with ashen skin who looked as though he stood on death’s door; a brunette woman, seemingly enthralled by the Lord Commissar’s entrance; and finally, a grinning, pallid ghoul who wore his smile taut on his face. The Lord Commissar continued, “Be merciless. Let justice be done.”

He nodded in finality, and in unison, his Crows saluted once more. “Should the sky fall, Lord Commissar York!” They soon split off on their own paths, heading toward different parts of the city.

-

Oblivious to the commotion outside, Saeoth meticulously combed through records of the Yggdist cardinal Vittore. It was clear from the state of his quarters that he had made an effort to save at least some texts of importance, but plenty of manuscripts scrawled in old Northern script remained for her to skim through.

Under different circumstances, Saeoth would have found it beyond insulting that humans would have the gall to pilfer her people’s treasured artifacts; however, her chief concern in the moment was finding any possible reference to the bizarre ruin secluded deep in the Eastern fringe of the Empire.

Her limited ability to read the script was turning this task into a chore. Just as she was getting invested in a rather dull piece of geographical surveying that had been conducted by the Valkyur when they first occupied the area known as Schwartzgrad, the sound of footsteps caused her to look over at the door.

Two black-clad guards entered and instinctively saluted. One of the men spoke quickly, seeing the anger in her eyes. “Corrector Saeoth, sir! Lord Commissar York wishes to know if you found anything worth jeopardizing all his work for, sir!”

Saeoth smirked, able to tell the nervous man was simply repeating what Montgomery had told him. She put a finger on the aged parchment in front of her and said, “Nothing as of yet. Perhaps I could, if left in peace for a few hours.” When the man lingered, she changed her tune, “Tell Montgomery that should I find anything, he will be the first to know. Now leave me.”

One glimpse at her vibrant red eyes and the two soldiers were sent packing, half-running, half-walking out of the cathedral. Alone once more, Saeoth returned to her reading, uncaring about the chaos that was now gripping Imperial High Command.

-

The Federation Rangers stood at the edge of the canal in silence, mourning the loss of their comrades and the Centurion. There was nothing more that needed to be said; at long last, their mission was over. It was unclear if their final choice had served to end the war or merely staved off the inevitable return of weapons of mass destruction. The hounds of had been released, and the East European Imperial Alliance was left with only one recourse: to intensify its own development programs, closing the gap between it and the United States.

The sounds of boots on stoned caused the Rangers to turn, watching figures in long black coats approaching them. The ominous Crows slowly fanned out into a half-circle, then came to a halt, standing eerily still without making a sound.

Claude came forward, gently shifting Angela on his back, who was sleeping soundly. He watched as an Imperial Commissar walked out from the group. The man’s peak cap and uniform were immaculate, indicating he took great care to maintain their pristine condition. A golden monocle sat over the right of his green eyes, giving him a rather sophisticated appearance. He looked the Ranger leader up and down, seemingly unimpressed, before speaking with an educated Gallian dialect. “Captain Claude Wallace?”

“Yes,” Claude answered as Kai and Minerva took positions on his right and left respectively. They seemed equally unnerved by the appearance of these new Imperials.

“I am Commissar Bernheim,” the Commissar introduced himself dryly, giving a slight regal bow. Straightening up again, he removed several papers from his inner pocket. “In accordance with the ceasefire, the Federation will put a hold on further offensive action against our Empire. In return, my men and I will escort you, along with your squad, to the Kingdom of Zwolle, which has agreed to serve as mediator until a more permanent treaty can be signed.”

Minerva pushed up her glasses, unconvinced. “And how do we know we will actually reach the kingdom?”

Leopold looked insulted by her distrust and changed his tone, “My dear lady. I have always believed that the pen produces better results than the sword. Killing you now would only lower us to your level.” He gestured to men standing behind him. “There is a train waiting. This not up for debate.” On cue, the other Commissars unbuttoned their coats, revealing the holster of their sidearms.

Still somewhat in shock with losing his love, Claude swallowed and took a deep breath to steady his nerves. Staring into the unfeeling eyes of the Crow, he asked, “What about our dead?”

“Not to worry. Your dead will be returned to you, just as soon as we have collected our own,” Leopold explained with a noticeable edge to his voice, clearly growing annoyed with the questions. “And in regards for your ship… I am sure you can guess that lifting such a vessel out of the sea will take us some time.”

Claude sighed, seeing there nothing more to say. Leopold wasn’t quite finished, however, and quickly added, “Oh, and… I must be clear, you are to have no further contact with the citizens of our Empire.” Claude nodded, slightly confused, and part of the Crows split off to follow the group of Rangers and naval personnel from the rear. They marched out together to the train station under Commissar escort.

-

War was a chess game played by men far from the battlefield, paying for gains in lives of soldiers. This death struggle rarely rewarded the pure of heart; more often than not, it devoured those who clung too tightly to their ideals. In the case of the man responsible for the greatest disaster in Imperial Military history, he had played his side game flawlessly. Every single piece was sacrificed when necessary to gain himself an advantage. Through such guile and subterfuge, Heinrich Belgar’s final move in this game was to elude the Commissars’ watchful eye and reach the border of the Imperial tributary state Alast.

  
  


The high stone walls of Fort Dragomir were more symbolic than anything, given the two countries had been on amiable terms since King Iosif submitted fully to the Emperor’s authority. The Doctor was quickly moved along through the gates alongside a few other citizens who were most likely visiting the small country on vacation.

Eventually, Heinrich found himself standing in front of a rather bored-looking clerk with tired, sunk-in eyes and a red nose. In the monotone voice of a career bureaucrat, he said, “Nature of visit?”

Turning on the charm, Heinrich smiled and said smoothly, “Transit to the Emirate of Ostende. Military business.”

The clerk paused on his typewriter and narrowed his eyes, “Your name?”

Thinking quickly, Heinrich smirked. “…Oswald Black.” He put a hand in his into his trouser pocket, wrapping his fingers around his ticket out of the country.

“Alright, Sir Black. I will need to see some identification,” The clerk said, reaching down and opening the middle drawer. He flipped through some files. “As I am sure you are aware, we are under strict orders—”

Heinrich cleared his throat to interrupt the man, placing a small palm-sized golden medallion on the desk. It depicted the personal coat of arms of the Emperor and was a gift to his closest confidants, allowing them passage across the whole country without hassle. It also superseded any authority the Lord Commissar of Schwartzgrad had, and could only be revoked by a member of the ruling family. The clerk’s eyes widened upon seeing it and he slammed the drawer shut. “M-My apologies. I did not realize…”

“Ah, it’s no issue. Just doing your job, of course,” Heinrich said with a nod, pocketing the medal. The clerk directed him through a doorway on the left. He headed through it and passed two Commissars in black uniforms, who were standing in the hallway. Without even breaking a sweat he offered both men a smile, and they barely reacted to him as he passed. In a few hours, he would be on a train to the port city of Abgala, where he would be able to rendezvous with his contact in the Vinnish Secret Service.

\--

Varrick Friedhold 

Age : 58  
  
Title : Deceased

The man once considered the soul of the Schwartzgrad Commissariat, Varrick Friedhold was a self-identified humanist who boldly declared a crusade against the corruption, nepotism, and decadence that plagued the upper echelons of Imperial society. He claimed it was the duty of the Commissar both to stand for the people of the Empire, and to represent justice in its most uncompromising form.

His zealousness was a blinding light, and he threw his entire being into the service of a state that held no love for a reformer like himself. His passion inevitably set the stage for decline; despite his efforts, nothing ever seemed to change. The disaster at Schwartzgrad served as the final straw, and he took his own life in the archival room of the Commissariat. He fell into despair, accepting that nothing could save the Empire from itself.

With his death, the light within the Commissariat was extinguished. Yet there are those who still strive to see his vision for the future come to pass.

  
  


Saeoth  
  
Age: ???   
  
Title: Corrector, The Pale Crow

Sightings of a Commissar adorned in white have yet to be substantiated by other members of the Imperial Commissariat. However, superstitious peasants continue to insist they have seen a woman with white hair and burning red eyes standing outside ancient Valkyrian ruins. Some say she is merely a ghost visiting an old resting place; others believe The Pale Crow is the manifestation of death itself, awakened by the Second European War.   
  


Leopold Alois Du Bernheim  
  
Age: 27   
  
Title: Commissar

Tracing his lineage back to one of the major Gallian patriarchs of the Imperial Alliance, Leopold is the odd man out within the Imperial Commissariat. Although his class has never prevented him from doing his duty, he is usually distrusted with more sensitive information and largely ignored by the inner circle.  
  
He is loved by the soldiers under his command, who affectionately refer to him as _Papa._ Currently, he is overseeing the organized campaign of extermination being waged against the Darcsen Liberation Movement on the fringes of the Empire.

  
  
Heinrich Belgar   
  
Age: 72   
  
Title: Doctor, Admiral, Lord

It is said that war is the mother of innovation, and Europe has had no shortage of butchers who have utilized the conflict to push the boundaries of ethical restrictions of science. Heinrich Belgar was just one of many architects of mass death, who owed his notoriety to a willingness utilize living test subjects to further his research goals. 

His division X-0 regularly supervised the vivisection of valkyria to gain a better understanding of their physiology, as well as testing various weapons on girls with the potential to study how their self-healing properties would manifest. Darcsen laborers were infected with numerous contagions to examine how certain diseases could spread in different environmental conditions. Through it all, his true passion remained for rocketry; any spare moment the doctor could be found drawing up schematics for a new method of propulsion. 

Fortunately for him, there is always a market for such scientific pursuits. While he overstayed his welcome in the Empire, the United States was more than willing to bargain for his brilliant mind. What became of him is currently unknown.


	3. Into Darkness (Chapter 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We were planning on posting Karl's story last week but life happens, so it's still not quite finished. Here's Monty's origin story instead. Thanks for your patience everyone. 👌

A rather dreary day had settled over Castledon’s Central Park, which stood out in vibrant greens in the middle of the winding city. The park was nestled like a puzzle piece in the center of Edinburgh’s capital. A gentle drizzle fell, persistent as ever throughout the morning and showing no sign of stopping. Despite the weather, though, there were plenty of people going about their routines. It was a surprisingly normal display, despite the threat of war that had only recently sparked across the sea, when Imperial Troops had overrun Assam’s fortifications on its border.

Now the isle of Edinburgh’s parliament was set to debate if it would honor its defensive treaty with the Western States of mainland Europe. Valois, Sneek, and Arlon had already declared war on the Empire, mobilizing their forces to assist Wessel. Now those same states were putting enormous pressure on Edinburgh to join the war and commit its population to the coming meat grinder. For most of the United Kingdom, it was a logical choice to aid their stalwart allies against the barbaric Eastern invaders; for some, though, the prospect of a brutal war was impossible to stomach.

During this turbulent time, a youthful Montgomery York found his place at Central Park. He took a deep breath and reviewed his index cards, anxiously tapping his foot on the muddy ground. A crowd had started to gather around the podium, which had been set up by a loosely connected coalition of anti-war students, labor syndicates, and far left political parties who had banded together to oppose Edinburgh’s entry into the conflict.

The orange and white banners were soaked by the rain, but they still stuck out from the dark green grass and trees. Montgomery grimaced as the rain had begun to speckle his notes, smudging the ink, and he hastily tucked them back into his inner jacket pocket of his worn beige jacket. He sat back in his seat and shielded his glasses from the rain, listening as the current speaker began to wrap up his impassioned speech.

“My dear friends, I implore you,” the speaker said to the thin crowd that was gathered. “This is not our war. We have been fooled by our leaders who concocted this human tragedy in agreement with the Eastern industrialists. Every one of us has more in common with an Eastern peasant than our own ministers! We must embrace a policy of defeatism in our country in support of the working class of Europe. I am proud to say I will never carry a rifle for my country!”

With the final sentence, he banged on the wooden podium for dramatic effect, and the crowd looked on silently. Slowly, a few claps circled around as well as a whistle, allowing Montgomery to relax a little. At least the people seemed sympathetic to their message. The speaker stepped down from the stand, straightening his worn gray suit. He had heavy bags under his brown eyes, and wispy, shoulder-length brown hair. Upon seeing the bespectacled man, the speaker smiled and walked over to the tree behind the podium.

Montgomery straightened up to correct his slouch and softly said, “Impressive speech as always, Henry.” There was a slight shake to his voice; preparing to speak in front of a crowd was far out of his comfort zone. In university, he rarely left the safety of the library. He was used to spending hours pouring over old texts of the Valkyur and philosophy, not trying to convince people to avoid going to war.

Henry stopped smiling and shrugged, always a humble man, and placed both hands in his pockets. “I told you, Oswald. The people do not want war.” Montgomery York was the name of an upper middle class son of the intelligensia, who had never known want or hunger, with a father who had gladly paid for his schooling. On the other hand, his alias Oswald Black had only been pen name, but soon morphed into a separate identity. A name that invoked the mysterious visage of a writer who had become well read in activist circles as a dedicate voice for anti-imperialism. Someone who had more than once accused the West of forcing the East European Imperial Alliance into a corner that would only end in war.

“I would hardly call this gathering ‘ _the people,_ ’” Montgomery muttered pessimistically, able to count with both hands how many bystanders seemed to be actually listening to them.

“But these people have lives, Oswald,” Henry said, putting a hand on his comrade’s shoulder. He nodded at the crowd. “They have friends and families. If only one of them leaves here unwilling to fight, then our cause is heard by more than just those standing here today.”

Montgomery was unconvinced, shaking his head. “The vote is in two days. There is no doubt we will soon be at war with with East. And what good is our cause then?”

“Stop,” Henry said, squeezing his shoulder. “Pessimism will not help us. Right now you have a speech to give.” He released Montgomery and grinned, “The people want to hear what the writer Oswald Black thinks about our predicament. Truthfully, so do I.”

Shifting awkwardly, Montgomery glanced down at the ground. “It was just a pamphlet… I never meant for it to be…”

Henry cut him off. “That matters little. Your writings inspired people to protest our involvement in the East.” He gave Montgomery a push toward the podium. “No more excuses. They are waiting on you.”

Taking another deep breath, Montgomery rubbed his hands together nervously, waiting on one of the student activists to introduce him. His heart was pounding, and a cold sweat began to form on his brow, though his sandy blonde hair was already soaked from the rain.

“And so it is my pleasure to introduce author Oswald Black,” the student at the podium said, then turned to nod at him. Montgomery froze and looked up, seeing a few people clapping. He looked back to Henry again, who gave him an encouraging smile.

York shuffled over to the podium, nervously slouching. A murmur went through the crowd, and he briefly considered just turning around and giving up on public speaking. Instead of running away thugh, he gripped the wooden pulpit tightly and said, “G-G-Good evening, e-everyone.”

The droplets were falling on his glasses now, making it difficult to see. He wasn’t even sure he could be heard over the sound of the falling rain. A wave of queasiness crashed over him, and he paused to collect himself before speaking again.

The first few minutes of the speech were an embarrassing display of anxiety, and he could tell he was losing the crowd. He shakily held his cards, though the rain was making reading them difficult. He caught his breath and continued on with his speech. The confidence in his own words helped him steady his voice.

He declared angrily, “And I say to our Prime Minster! Through _your_ policies, have the doves of peace been slaughtered! How can we claim to occupy some moral high ground over the Autocratic East!? When we refuse to release our own colonies? It was our fleet that squashed the Imperial Alliance’s ability to be received as an equal member of Europe. We assisted Valois in alienating them from the diplomatic sphere. Now they have finally struck back, and our _allies_ presume to act as if they are the victims!”

The atmosphere had shifted noticeably. He received a few nods of agreement and whistling. It had an intoxicating quality to it; so much so, he did not notice the trenchcoat-clad men coming up behind him. In an instant, he felt rough hands on his arms, and Montgomery was jerked down onto the wooden platform. He hit the damp wood with a heavy thud and felt the water seeping into his clothes.

A shocked gasp went through the crowd and a gruff voice spoke calmly into his ear, “That is enough out of you Mr. Black. Don’t you know a war is on?”

Montgomery grunted as his arms were wrenched behind his back, and a pair of shackles were clapped around his wrists. He struggled against his captor and screamed out at the crowd, which was now being dispersed, “Do you not see? The decision has been already made! We are no more democratic than the Imperial Alliance!”

He was pulled to his feet, twisting against the painful grip on his arms. This time the policeman punched him the stomach before dragging him from the platform. Montgomery grunted, but wasn’t content to go quietly. “You bloody pigs! You might as well go ahead and shoot me, because you cannot make me fight!”

“That is quite enough, you traitor,” Were the last words he heard before a club connected with the back of his head, and everything went dark.

In the darkness, Montgomery was certain he could hear the rhythmic dripping of water. It was a soft sound, one that seemed distant, but it was all he could hear beside the ringing in his ears. The feeling of dampness caused him to jump, and his eyes flew open. He grimaced, vision adjusting to his surroundings. He pushed himself into a sitting position, though the sudden movement brought a throbbing pain to radiate from the back of his skull. The smudges on his glasses made it difficult to see, so he took them off to clean them on his shirt. He returned them to their perch on his nose, then reached around to gently touch the back of his head. He flinched almost immediately; dry, crusted blood had matted his hair, and he felt queasy staring at his hand.

He started to panic, finally taking note of his surroundings. He was sitting in a windowless cell with a heavy iron door separating it from the rest of the block. It was caked with grime and lit only by a single low-hanging bulb that flickered ominously above him. His eyes were drawn to a set of chains hanging from the wall, rusted from years of use. His face blanched, anxiety settling heavy on his stomach. He stood up shakily, gripping the cold metal bars and attempting to stare out beyond them. He wondered briefly of what had become of Henry, but those thoughts paled to the overwhelming terror of what fate awaited him. Despite everything, Montgomery was no hardened revolutionary; his upbringing had done little to prepare him for any trouble with the law.

He paced his cell, wringing his hands nervously. He circled the small cell several times whilst mumbling to himself. Eventually, he found his nerve and rested against the steel door, trying to listen out for any sign of another person. The metal was cold, but quite soundproof. He couldn’t hear anything at all, not even a whisper from the other side. It was deathly silent.

He angrily kicked the door and screamed, “What is the meaning of this? I have the right to council!” It was only then that he realize how dry his mouth was, gagging almost immediately after. A new feeling of fear bubbled up: the realization that he had been out for sometime. But how long? A few hours, or a few days? It was impossible to know.

He stepped back, trying to calm his nerves. It was logical to assume whoever had imprisoned him was trying to break his spirit. He needed to relax, but being alone and hopeless, he could only curl up on the floor, wrapping his arms around his knees and trying to breathe deeply to stave off a panic attack.

He felt sick to his stomach. Briefly he considered that this would be the part in a book where a voice from a nearby cell would be heard; maybe a fellow prisoner would speak through a hole in the wall, or a guard would come by to check the block. Montgomery hesitated, listening intently, but in the end he could only hear the scurry of rats. At least, he certainly hoped it was rats.

-

After an unknown amount of time, Montgomery was certain he was going mad staring at the wall. A dull headache made it difficult for him to relax, and he had resorted to amusing himself by reciting his favorite lines from a play he had went to see a few days prior.

The troubles of dramatic monarchs was always amusing. He found himself losing himself in his fantasies. Suddenly, the sound of metal scraping made him jump, and he jumped up to see the cell door opening. The sudden movement made him dizzy, and he could only weakly bring up a defensive gesture against whoever it was entering.

A well-dressed balding man in an immaculate navy blue suit with red tie entered the cell. He stood before Montgomery, shoulders straight, and the man’s stance almost fooled him into thinking the stranger was taller than him. The stranger’s voice rang in York’s ears, “Good morning, Mr. Black.” He paused, and with an insufferable aura of smugness, added, “Perhaps though, I should say Mr. York. I am Commissioner Arthur North.”

Montgomery grimaced. It was not exactly like he had tried to cover up the connection between the two names, but ideally he had hoped to hide behind his pen name. He froze at the man’s words, wide-eyed, and shakily asked, “M-Morning?”

“Oh, yes. It has been about fifteen hours since my boys brought you in,” North explained, taking a few steps back as if expecting the man to lash out.

Montgomery made a fist and demanded, “Where is Henry? You have no right to detain us! We had permission to hold our rally!”

“Permission,” Arthur scoffed, finding the idea amusing. He waved a hand dismissively. “Do you traitorous cowards understand there is a war on?”

“We haven’t joined yet!” Montgomery protested stomping his foot.

“But we have,” Arthur said simply, maintaining his calm exterior. “We have an obligation to defend our democratic way of life from those Eastern animals.” He smirked and added, “Parliament held an emergency session a few hours ago. We have already committed ourselves fully.”

Montgomery fell into stunned silence, leaning back onto the wooden plank behind him. Quietly he mumbled, “So in the end… democracy is shed as if it is merely an inconvenience.”

“Very poetic, York. Unfortunate that such a talented writer is nothing more than an idealist,” Arthur said, leaning against the wall and putting both his hands in front of him. “In truth we have watched your career with great interest for a while now.”

“Where is Henry?” Montgomery asked again, ignoring his statement. He was desperately trying to stifle his fear, hoping to avoid stuttering.

“Ah, yes, the colonial,” Arthur said unsympathetically. He shrugged nonchalant and answered, “He will be deported back to whatever savage land he is from. Our homeland has no need for men who won’t answer the call to arms.” The commissioner delighted in watching the panic spread across Montgomery’s face, “Though I must admit, I am pleased with your change of heart.”

“Excuse me?” Montgomery glared at the commissioner, balling up his hand again until his knuckles turned white.

“Joining the King’s navy, of course,” Arthur said, pushing off from the wall. “It’s always nice to see a pacifist understand that sometimes war is just in the face of a greater evil.” He clapped both hands together. “I must agree with you. The Empire is nothing more than a rabid dog. We must put it down quickly, lest its savagery destroy Europe.”

Montgomery shot forward, stopping just a few inches from Arthur’s face. “To hell with that! How many millions will perish? This war was concocted for the benefit of the industrialists of both countries!”

“Yes, yes. Henry said the same thing.” North snorted, unmoved by the passion. “You have a duty to your nation—show some pride. Do you think your protest would have even happened in that autocratic shithole?”

“That is irrelevant!” Montgomery stomped his foot. “It is not my job to change the East! I have no qualm with the millions of peasants who will now be slaughter by our guns! They are my bro—”

He never got to finish; in a swift move, Arthur grabbed his collar and struck him square in the jaw, knocking his glasses off. The commissioner gripped him by the back of his neck and punched him in the stomach. “Unfortunate, it seems you are hysterical. Come now, my boy! Grow a pair.”

Montgomery gasped, falling to his knees and groping around for his glasses. He could feel warm blood trickling down from his temple. “I – I can’t see.” The sound of glass being broken under foot was North’s only response, and York stopped moving.

He heard Arthur speaking, and could see several blurry shapes. “Convince this worthless slug of his error.” The sound of boots echoed against the stone floor. Montgomery was kicked in the side, knocking him flat. A club connected with his side and he cried out. He couldn’t tell what pain was coming from where; it was all he could do to cower as he was savagely beaten, desperately covering his face in meager defense.

After what felt like forever, Arthur called off his dogs and knelt down next to a bloodied Montgomery, who was almost unrecognizable. “Will you serve, York?”

“I…” Montgomery groaned. He struggled to find his resistance, to spit blood in the face of his torturer. To stand with his morals, that he would never fight in the his nation’s army out of solidarity with the continent’s working class. Yet his ringing ears, the radiating pain from his legs, and the fact he was unable to even see did much to reshuffle his priorities. Weakly he stuttered, “I-I w-will serve.”

Arthur nodded, satisfied. “Good man. We all have our duty to our country.” He stood up and addressed the guards, “Get him cleaned up. Then let the recruiter know we have another one for them.”

Montgomery heard the commissioner leave, and was dragged to his feet shortly after. He stayed quiet, allowing his resentment to boil. He hated himself for being a coward, for giving in. The image that had lived in his head of this moment had always been one of a brave revolutionary accepting death before giving up their ideals. Yet greater than his own self-hatred was his anger towards his country. His belief in the kingdom had fallen apart. Perhaps it was his blind idealism that did make him believe that there might be something greater about Edinburgh. Now, though, in his mind there was no longer any difference between Edinburgh and the Empire.


	4. Into Darkness (Chapter 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a shame we don't have much lore regarding the first war, but eventually I'm hoping to be able to elaborate a little on the politics behind it in the main story later on. In the meantime though, here's some fun Monty content.  
> Hope everyone's having fun in quarantine, and thanks for reading.

The Great European War erupted throughout the continent with rousing cheers, thunderous applause from the nationalist-minded commoners and keen businessmen alike. Within the span of the war’s first year, four million men had been ground through the machine, and the surviving spectators began to watch their own fuel gauges nervously. The enemy couldn’t hold out forever under the crushing strain of modern warfare; at the very least, they were all hoping to manage to hold out longer than their opponents.

The once-stunning fields between the city of Ostend and Saphorin had been torn inside out by craters, the ancient forests now an apocalyptic image of barren destruction. Villages were reduced to piles of brick and gravel, and their inhabitants uprooted and forced to flee westward, further from the front. Even with the desolation having levelled the land, artillery shells continued to rain down through the night in a constant scream, pummeling the defensive fortifications. The dark was never able to shroud the field, as constant fires bathed the field in a permanent orange glow.

Imperial Commanders grew desperate under the strain of a static trenchline, pushing them to order increasingly suicidal charges. In return, the newly-christened Federation funneled in a staggering number of bodies to stabilize the frontlines, experienced soldiers quickly being replaced by men fresh from basic plucking recycled guns off the battlefield in front of them. _‘The Empire’s war machine seems endless. One wonders what must take place behind the grand curtain of their machinations, as the bodies pile high enough to form grotesque palisades lining their positions. In the suffocating summer heat, it is all we can do not to choke on the stench that stagnates above the bodies, comrade and enemy alike. Perhaps it is the greater mercy to be buried among them, than be alive to witness this Hell on earth_ ,’ was a statement that returned home to Valois, gaining the attention of distressed civilians for its stark contrast to the official image of the war.

Far from the unfathomable horrors of the continental war, a different kind of despair brewed in the dizzying isolation of the North Sea. It was an unnervingly silent assignment, tension threading every waking moment spent out on the blank vastness of the high seas. It was knowing that silence could break at any given second, that they could easily sail into their demise without any means of escape, that left the men of the HMS Hadleigh on edge. It was this ship that Montgomery York found himself in service, an older dreadnought still in service of the Edinburgh Navy. Armed with ten twelve-inch naval guns and twenty-seven secondary three-inch cannons, the aged vessel still maintained the capability of pushing its own weight against the more modern Imperial ships. Its greatest limitation could be found in its outdated ragnite engine, which resulted in slower speed and poor maneuverability.

  
  


Montgomery stood alongside one of the secondary guns in the shadow of one of the Hadleigh’s two smokestacks. He looked out over the stretching blue horizon with a detached expression on his face. Softly he spoke, as if the noise might disturb the anxious calm that settled among the waves. “Is it true, then? The Empire has invaded Gallia?”

Leaning against the gun stood his comrade Mulde, a Darcsen man and fellow pacifist in his early twenties. He, too, had been forced to answer the call to war in a similar fate to the bespectacled writer. The olive-skinned man ran a hand through his stringy, salt-soaked dark hair. “The paper said two days ago… I cannot help but wonder what the Imps are thinking.”

“Must be running out of ragnite,” Montgomery answered disinterestedly, sliding his hands into his trouser pockets. He felt a heavy lump forming in his throat and swallowed it back down. “After all,” a cynical smile twitched at the corner of his mouth, “Human lives are so easily traded en masse for that accursed mineral. The lunacy is inescapable.”

His revolutionary idealism had been thoroughly torn apart as the physical and mental strain of forced military service had worn down his nerves. He regularly found himself morose, unable to stomach solid food. Although the rigidity of naval life provided him with a routine, it did little to alleviate his hopelessness. He seemed to function as if on autopilot, speaking only to Mulde or when addressed by a commanding officer. If an inevitable battle didn’t kill him, he might very well lose his mind in the solitude of the open water.

Mulde had taken it upon himself to attempt improving his forlorn comrade’s morale, if for his own sake. Pushing the conversation in another direction, he said, “Be that was it may. What about the mutinies in Valois? Surely they indicate that things are changing. Soldiers are starting to understand the bill of goods they were sold.”

“Have you forgotten? They were crushed—mercilessly… Totally,” York’s voice trailed off to a whisper. It felt bitter to know how swiftly and harshly the rebellious regiments were wiped out, and along with them, any hope for an organized exit from the war. He sighed and rubbed a hand against his face. “It is time to face the facts, Mulde… our doctrines were wrong. There will be no popular uprising in time before the bloody end. A change of tactics is going to be necessary.”

“A change in tactics…” Mulde mused, pondering over what possible alternative they had.

Montgomery stopped and remained silent. The hum of the ship’s engine and the sound of water gently slapping against the ship were only noises that could be heard. The hopelessness on his face slowly receeded, giving away to resolution. He made a fist and said, “Infiltration.”

It was a simple answer, but one that made Mulde shift uneasily. Something about such a simple word was unnerving. The other man reached forward, quickly grabbing Montgomery’s arm. “Don’t be foolish. Infiltration is a dead end—surely you are smart enough to see that, comrade.”

Montgomery shook off his grip and turned around. “Infiltrating positions of authority, while high-risk, presents a way to challenge the control of a state from within… Combined with pressure for change from the outside, revolutionaries from within can restructure existing hierarchies with minimal loss of life.” As he spoke through the idea, he sounded more sure of the idea.

Mulde snorted, causing York’s gaze to snap back to him. “You act like that would be easy,” he said, holding out three fingers in front of his comrade’s face. “One. You assume that the state would make it easy for itself to be subverted, but you forget these institutions have existed for decades. Two… Let’s say by some miracle, you reach a position of power that allows you to influence the nature of the state. What then? What stops you from falling into the very ideology you wish to replace? And three—pay attention, Monty… Who is to say the people will embrace the shift in national direction?”

Montgomery stared at him for a moment, pale eyes harboring a darkness that seemed to cloud them. He stepped back and pointed at nothing in particular. “The people! Don’t make me laugh. Those idiotic simpletons endorsed this war and gleefully marched off to fight it!” He stomped his boot in frustration. “Sometimes one must be prepared to bypass popular will for the betterment of mankind. If one must be called a tyrant to do so, then allow me to bare that weight.” He paused, taking a deep breath and attempting to regain his composure. Despite the fire behind his words, he still hadn’t raised his voice above a polite volume; the insistence of his tone, however, got the message across.

  
  
  


Montgomery stared at him, his pale blue eyes harboring a darkness that seemed to cloud them. He stepped back and pointed out at nothing in particular. “The people! … Do not make me laugh! Those idiotic simpletons endorsed this war, and gleefully marched off to fight it!” He stomped his foot frustrated, “Sometimes one must be prepared to bypass popular will for the betterment of mankind. If it is necessary to resort to tyranny to do so, then allow me to bare that weight!” He paused trying to regain his composure and took a deep breath.

Mulde took the reprieve as an opportunity to speak. Mockingly, he held out both his arms. “What separates you from the autocrats in the East, then, Monty? They too believe they act in the interest of the majority!”

Montgomery stopped and pushed up his glasses. “Authority is merely a tool. One we must be prepared to use with impunity, just as the current Emperor has… How else can the Darcsen hope to liberate themselves from the past? Without crushing all those who cling to idiotic beliefs of that cult?”

Mulde fell silent, seeing there was nothing more for him to say. He massaged his temple, exhausted with the debate, and sighed. “Just be wary, Monty. Power blackens the soul of the men who think that they can wield it justly… And we Darcsen know far better than most the consequences of tyranny.”

Seeing the conversation was over, Montgomery nodded and softened his tone. “I understand your concerns, my friend. You have lived experiences I could only imagine, but things have to change. We can no longer pretend the present is acceptable and must start considering ways to change our future.”

With that thought he offered a faint smile and left, leaving Mulde to reflect on their discussion. Looking out over the blue water, the Darcsen could not help but feel a distinct sadness.

-

The next morning the Hadleigh’s alarm echoed throughout the metal hull, rousing the crew. Montgomery jolted up from his cot and groped around for his glasses. He slid the metal frames onto his face and fumbled his way to his post. He sprinted up the steps, two at a time, pushing past two sailors who were heading down for something. Once out on the deck, he froze, staring off into the distance. The world seemed to fall silent, and for a moment all he could do was stare morosely at the gray ships approaching.

He was certain he was looking at the entire Imperial Fleet, in all of its terrible glory. Leviathans of steel that shook the ocean when their massive cannons opened up. He was jostled by another sailor who shouted something at him. Montgomery stared at him blankly, unable to comprehend his panicked words.

His pause was shattered when one of the distant battleships fired. Though he could see it in the distance, the sound shook him as if it had fired right next to him. The shells propelled forward with immense force, crashing just short of them in the water and exploding in a geyser of water. The noise was enough to snap Montgomery out his trance, and he shook the sailor off of him to rush over to one of the three-inch guns positioned at the center of the ship’s deck.

Mulde was already in the process of rotating the cannon. Upon seeing his comrade, he shouted over the commotion, “I suppose it’s too much to ask they turn around and come back later!”

Montgomery pushed up his glasses and assisted with pushing the bulk of steel toward the enemy. In doing so, he had a clear view of the Imperial ships as they slowly formed a line of indomitable armor across the horizon. He gulped and asked, “Why are they this far from the Crystal Sea?”

“Trying to bypass the blockade, I guess,” Mulde said in thought, steadying his footing while waiting for the order to fire. “I sure hope the Captain has sent a distress signal. This might be the Imp’s whole fleet.”

The Hadleigh began to turn, facing its side toward the enemy, and Montgomery was shocked to realize they were going to fight them. Another volley was fired their way, this one from a light cruiser that was currently charging towards them. Soon enough the order came, and the dreadnought’s small guns opened up on the ship. The first shells missed, but the third and fourth found their mark. Montgomery watched, awestruck, as the cruiser exploded into a vibrant red flame.

His awe was cut short as a second explosion followed, completely annihilating a larger enemy vessel in a burst of blue light and sending flaming shrapnel at the nearest ship. He could see the waves arc out even this far away. It was horrifying and beautiful all at once, the true destructive potential of the future of warfare. It was one thing to read the statistics, to understand the costs in theory; it was another thing entirely to witness thousands of lives being extinguished in the blink of an eye.

There was no time to dwell too hard on it though, as the Hadleigh was now facing down the full bore of the Imperial Navy. The guns were reloaded, and once the battlecruisers were in range, another volley was fired. The superior speed of the Imperial ships made them difficult to pin down. One was struck by a single shell, and it look like it might explode, but the Imperial crew managed to put out the fire.

The battlecruisers returned fire and Montgomery gripped the gun in front of him with white knuckles, feeling the shells slam into the Hadleigh. The metal hull buckled and creaked; the whole ship shook violently, but its thick armor held. The water crashed onto the deck and several unfortunate men were swept away into the sea.

“We’re royally screwed!” Montgomery exclaimed, ducking down and bracing himself.

Mulde said a prayer under his breath. Turning the cannon further to the right, he kept it trained one of the cruisers. The boat rotated, and the whole world shook as they opened up again with a deafening blast. The shells arced toward one of the distant battleships, which was finally able to bring its own guns into range.

The center of the armored monstrosity's deck started glow a dull orange, and it seemed to be out commission. Their hope was shattered, though, when the enemy ship’s own massive guns fired off a volley which crashed right down on the deck of the Hadleigh. The blast that followed flung Montgomery from his position, and he slammed onto the deck with ringing ears. He moaned, the taste of copper in his mouth. He tried to sit up, pain ringing though his skull, and spit blood onto the floor.

Blearily, he looked around at the chaotic tragedy playing out on the once-mighty dreadnought. One of the shells had caused a fire, which some of the men were frantically trying to put out. His breath left him upon seeing Mulde. The Darcsen man had been pierced through the chest by a loose piece of shrapnel, and he now was pinned down by the detached barrel of the gun they had been manning. Without hesitation, Montgomery rushed over and shouted, “Ragnaid! We have wounded!”

Of course, in such a situation no one came. Mulde grunted, blood dripping down from his mouth. He cracked a forlorn smile. “Agh, hell… I-It’s about time…”

“Stop talking,” Montgomery said authoritatively, though his voice still shook. He tried to put pressure on the wound, but only achieved in dying his hands red. “I’m not letting you die here!”

Mulde started to choke, and with a wheezy gasp he pushed Montgomery’s hands away. “Look at me—this… This is n-not going to be stitched up.” He paused with a shuddering breath, dark eyes filled with pain. He reached out, touching his friend’s cheek. “Monty. Do not lose focus…”

Montgomery fought back tears, reaching up to grasp his comrade’s forearm. He realized painfully that he had never really appreciated the kindness the dark-haired man had offered him. In many ways, it was because of Mulde he hadn’t been thoroughly beaten down by his conscription, that he was still alive to witness the madness of war first-hand. “…Is there anyone?”

“No,” Mulde said simply, writhing against the metal protruding from his gut and grimacing. He laughed breathily and continued, “Th-the state likes it that way, after all. No one to mourn. But…” He coughed and gripped Montgomery’s arm painfully tight. “Promise me,” he said, stared deeply into his comrade’s blue eyes, “that you will live. Someone must…”

Mulde gasped, scarlet blood trailing down his chin and onto his chest. He pushed himself, speaking through clenched teeth, “Ensure that justice reaches those responsible for this… Never—Never let them forget us.”

Montgomery’s eyes widened at the request, his shoulders shaking. He reached up, tenderly putting his hand onto Mulde’s own, and leaned in close to his friend. In a near whisper, he said, “As long as I still breathe… Europe will never know a day of rest. Comrade…”

In a gesture of finality, he found Mulde’s arms wrapped around him in a brotherly hug. He could not see that the Darcsen was smiling peacefully as his life faded away.

Montgomery was torn from the moment when another sailor screamed out, “The ammunition!”

The last thing he heard was an ear-splitting explosion, followed by an immense force from below him. He was tossed toward the heavens, plunging into the cold water below in a hailstorm of wood and steel as the breath was ripped from his lungs.

\--

Water rushed all around him, and Montgomery felt himself sinking into freezing blackness. Above him the light glimmered a faint orange from the fire above. In an impulsive move, he snatched his glasses as they began to float from his head. The weight of his certain demise began to settle on him as he sank further into the depths.

His mind seized with terror at the though, and his body surged forward into action. He started to swim desperately toward the shimmer above him. He felt as if he were swimming for ages, desperately kicking up, running out of air—and he finally broke through the surface, sputtering and coughing. He splashed around, trying to regain his bearings, though he was mostly trying to keep his head above water. His hand brushed a floating piece of metal and he latched onto it, waiting for his vision to clear.

As his eyes focused, a pit formed in his stomach. Clinging to the floating remains of the Hadleigh, he saw in front of him the true horrors of war. Bodies of his former comrades, floating lifelessly in the water. Some were charred black by the fire that continued to crackle on the rubble, while others were bobbing gently, their limbs, or worse—guts, floating nearby.

He almost found the scene in front of him… hauntingly beautiful, though that might have been a potential head injury clouding his thoughts. It was a sight, the splashes of reds and greys against the endless blue, pure chaos. Like an oil painting; or more apt, perhaps pulled from the front page report of a war correspondent. In this case, though, it was no mere picture. When his body caught up to his mind and he realized he could no longer feel his legs, the fear of dying returned Montgomery once again to his senses.

First he attempted to pull himself up further onto the chunk of metal he was holding onto, managing to pull his legs out of the water. Laying on the metal he groaned, and for the first time in his life prayed to the Valkyur. Montgomery held no trust in power from on high—but if there was any mercy left in this world, he’d need any he could get.

“Please… Not like this,” he pleaded to the cloudless sky, to no one at all. The crackle of the fire burning around him was his only response.

Suddenly flashes of Mulde’s final state caused Montgomery to choke up, tears burning his eyes. Of course, it could have just been the smoke in the air, but the loss of his sole confidant did little to help the situation. A burst of anger surged forth and he pointed up at the clouds. “Is this as designed!? This senseless brutality! I reject this unjust fate!”

It was a meaningless declaration, but after a few shaky breaths, he sat up with renewed focus. He was resolute he would not die a pointless death. Something in the sky caught his attention, a black speck. His eyes strained to see, then widened as a massive crow cawed, its shadow passing over him. Montgomery craned his neck to follow it, and caught sight of an Imperial Heavy Cruiser slowly making its way through the carnage. The ship’s massive guns protruded far above the water. He knew they were probably looking for survivors. Prisoners, more likely. Anger swelled in him, and in a fit of madness he shouted as loud as he could manage, “Bloody Imps! Come finish the job, you worthless maggots!”

His cry went unanswered, at first. He floated there for a moment, quietly wondering if he should scream louder. He didn’t have to, though, as an enemy sailor poked his head over the side of the ship. Spotting him, Montgomery yelled again, “Right here, tin man!” He flailed his arms around wildly, though it crossed his mind there would not be much to do if his opponent opened fire on him. “I am going to freeze to death before you shoot me!”

The Imperial sailor brought up a side arm and was taking aim, when another came over to see the commotion. He stopped his comrade, shaking his head; to Montgomery’s shock, a life boat was soon being lowered and a pair of hands were dragging him aboard.

-

  
  
  


The two sailors behind Montgomery roughly shoved him forward onto the deck of the Imperial ship. He stumbled and began to protest, but one of the men growled, “Quiet, Fed.” He fell silent, noticing that his left hand was shaking violently and reached over with his right to steady it.

The Imperial cruiser was larger than those in service by the Edinburgh Navy, a marvel of technological advancement. Montgomery did not have time to reflect on his ever-declining situation when another sailor approached and held out a hand, stopping them. “A survivor?” The two men nodded and he said, “I see. Take him to the Captain.”

Montgomery was led further onto the ship toward the stern, and eventually found himself looking at the back of who he assumed must be the captain. He was an imposing man, and he turned upon hearing footsteps behind him. His dark skin was rough like leather, aged by years at sea. He raised a bushy eyebrow curiously and brought his left hand up to his chin—rather, it seemed a two-pronged metal prosthetic took the place of where his left hand should have been. “Hoh?” the man wondered aloud, voice deep and booming. “What have we here?”

He stayed in fixed in place, waiting for his sailors to push Montgomery forward. The young man found his gaze drawn form the captain’s hand up to the decorate black fez that sat loosely on his head. It was pinned with a minimalist depiction of the Imperial Eagle. One of the soldiers stepped up and saluted before gesturing towards their prisoner. “Franz heard him shouting like some kind of madman. So–”

“So you decided to drag him out of the water?” The Captain interrupted, finding the idea humorous. With a smirk, he eyed Montgomery. “I suppose you ought to consider yourself lucky, Fed. Trust me, the sea is far harsher than any trench.” He tapped his prosthetic before straightening up again. “Anyways. I am Captain Salvio Merchorre.” He bowed slightly, though Montgomery was unsure if he was being sarcastic. “Let’s get formalities out of the way. Name and rank, if you would.”

Montgomery gulped uneasily, not entirely sure what kind of outcome he had expected when he started shouting. His hand was still shaking violently, despite his efforts to calm it. Enunciating clearly, he stated, “Oswald Black. Private. 285174094”

“Are all Feds such terrible liars?” Salvio asked without hesitation. His dark brown eyes looked Montgomery up and down. He squinted, “Give me some credit, boy. I did not become captain by playing the part of the fool. Considering your life is in my hands… and I can easily throw you back overboard, how about some honesty?”

Not keen on being thrown into the icy water again, Montgomery quickly corrected, “Montgomery York. Private. 285174094.”

Salvio scratched his cheek. He found it odd that of all the things to lie about, his prisoner chose just to hide his name. However, he seemed satisfied with the answer, and waved his hand. The sailors released their captive and took a step back. “Now, the question is… What should I do with you?” He paused to mull it over. “Obviously protocol states I should lock you in the brig until we return to port… but I will be honest, Montgomery, since you were honest with me. I like survivors.”

“You… like survivors?” Montgomery repeated, unsure what else he could really say. His fate was entirely in the hands of the strange man.

“Aye,” Salvio nodded, exuding a warmth that seemed inappropriate for conversing with a soldier of an enemy nation. He put his good hand into his jacket pocket, which looked incredibly warm from where the soaking Montgomery was standing. “To survive is a skill few truly have. It means that you have something worth living for. Something that demands you press onward, no matter the obstacle.”

Montgomery looked down at the wooden deck below his feet. “I would not put such a high price on dumb luck… Had I been positioned anywhere else, I doubt we would be having this conversation.”

“Would you prefer divine intervention, then?” Salvio asked, changing his tune. He turned his head toward the burning wreckage adrift in the water. “There is nothing left of your ship. The Valkyur clearly favor your path, at the very least.”

The suggestion was one Montgomery was entirely prepared to accept in order to rationalize his survival. He was meant for something greater than dying in such a pointless war; now, he had the chance to change his fate entirely. Releasing his shaking hand, he pushed up his glasses and said, “Perhaps, I am favored by the Almighty… Perhaps not. But if I am, then it would be in your interest to facilitate my journey.”

The sudden burst of confidence excited Salvio, who placed his prosthetic on his hip and said, “Ah, not so hopeless after all.” He stepped forward and stood mere inches from Montgomery’s face. “As I said … I like survivors. And you look to have your wits, so I am hereby conscripting you into the service of the Imperial Navy.”

Montgomery’s jaw dropped, finding conscription to be a completely unexpected outcome of the conversation. He wasn’t the only one—the other sailors started to protest. “Sir! He–“

But Salvio cut the man off quickly. “You were the one who chose to bring him aboard, Franz.” When the sailor fell silent, the captain continued, “Fed or not, he can be of use to us.”

“I … uh,” Montgomery stuttered, still trying to come up with a response. His memory of the Empire’s law was hazy at best, though he had been certain the practice of conscription was forbidden by the United Kingdom. Steeling his nerve, he swallowed his hesitation and declared, “I will gladly serve the Emperor.”

“You certainly will,” Salvio said, his face darkening considerably as the conversation took an ominous turn. “If you are caught slacking, Franz here will flog you bloody and let the gulls pick your bones clean. I expect you serve with every fiber of your being. If I ever catch you hesitating in the face of the enemies of our Empire… the consequences will be severe. Understand me, boy?”

Without missing a beat, Montgomery saluted, mimicking the fist over the heart he had witnessed earlier and said, “Yes, sir!”

His salute was crude, but Salvio accepted it. Turning to Franz, he said, “He is your responsibility. Take him to the infirmary. He is clearly suffering from shell shock.”

Franz nodded and put a calloused hand on Montgomery’s shoulder, “This way.” The two men left the bridge neither aware of what the future held.

Not once in his three years of service did Montgomery York face any form of disciplinary action. He even managed to overcome the distrust of the Imperial Sailors, who eventually considered him a comrade in arms. During the war years, when not working, he would bury himself in any ideological texts he could get his hands on, regularly using his time off to study another world of philosophy and theory inaccessible in the West.

When the curtain drew on the theatre of the Great European War, Montgomery York was met not a week later by two imposing figures in black trenchcoats. He’d been taking a stroll at the docks, unsure of where to go, not knowing how to navigate a foreign society. He wasn’t entirely sure what was happening until they already had cuffs on his wrists. He was arrested under suspicion of his loyalties, to be questioned on his role in the defeat of the Imperial Armed Forces, they responded curtly as he demanded to understand what was going on. As he was roughly shoved into the back of an unmarked car, the door shut quickly behind him, he had found history’s tendency to repeat itself quite disconcerting.


	5. Into Darkness (Chapter 3)

The end of the First European War marked a shift in the Empire’s national psychology, as the bitter realities of peace settled over the once-proud nation. A generation’s worth of young men had died on the Western Front, and many more were left forever maimed for nothing more than a few hundred miles of land. The survivors, faces pallid and gaunt, uncontrollable tremors making them quiver as they recounted the horrors they had faced. Stories about comrades who’d been sucked into the mud, blown to bits by artillery, chemical burns that melted fleshed and burned men from the inside out; nightmares that circulated through every echelon of Imperial society.

When combined with unrest in newly-occupied territories and the downward economic spiral brought on by the immense strain of total war, the once unshakable autocracy had become a powder keg. The peasantry began to riot, storming the estates of the nobility and demanding the Emperor take responsibility and step down.

Quaking in fear at the idea of revolution, not unlike a thief caught red-handed, the autocrat responded predictably by finding others to blame. First to shoulder responsibility were the generals, many of whom were forced into early retirement, condemned as failures. Soon anxious conscripts were redeployed to the regions most heavily affected by unrest and ordered to regain control of the situation. All the while, in the middle of the chaos, the All Father of the Yggdist Church and his loyal cardinals produced a thesis cementing the Emperor’s power and condemning the Darcsen people. Their manifesto claimed the minority had been working with the Federation to undermine the war effort from the very beginning.

During all of this upheaval, another change occurred, almost unnoticed at first. A once-tiny secret police force, whose power was strictly regulated to overseeing military matters in the name of the Emperor, suddenly found its authority over correctional matters expanded to encompass nearly every other aspect of the judiciary. Encouraged to keep trials quick, the reformed Commissariat of Internal Security ran roughshod over the previously enshrined rights of the nobility to govern their own duchies, and streamlined the entire legal system in the Empire. The aristocrats argued, but their protests fell on deaf ears, given the severity of the situation.

With the pieces falling into place, the position of Lord Commissar was created and handed off to the eccentric Alexei Foka, whose previous accomplishments were sparse outside of his management of the volatile provinces on the edge of the Empire’s border with the Far East. It was his familial connections with the Emperor’s own and traditional mindset that made him the ideal man for the job of rooting out the traitors responsible for the instability plaguing the state.

An ethnic Far Easterner born in territories that had been recently signed over to the Imperial Alliance during a border dispute, Alexei always stood out in comparison to others in the Emperor’s court and had been the victim of many racist rumors circulated, insinuating he was only kept around for novelty purposes. Yet, if the claims ever bothered them, one could never know, as he generally liked to focus on his work and avoided causing trouble.

So as always, when the order came down from the top to deal with any and all foreign saboteurs lurking in the shadows, he took the request in strides. In a broad stroke, soldiers charged with acting dishonorably during the war were arrested and sentenced according to the severity of crime. Hard labor was the most common punishment, although the number of extrajudicial executions carried out by the Commissariat slowly crept upward in the months that followed.

To ensure not a single stone was left unturned, Alexei turned his eye to anyone with potential connections to the Federation. Those with family in the West were investigated, and in many cases, only avoided harsh penalties due to their social class. It was the curious cases of Western defectors, or soldiers who had, though murky circumstances, found themselves conscripted into the Imperial Military, which left him with the greatest headache. Generally, most of the men had to be examined on a strict case-by-case basis to properly gauge their loyalty, and to weed out potential spies. Those deemed risks were generally extradited back to their country of origin, with little regard for their safety. Eventually, Alexei reached the end of the list with only one name remaining: _Montgomery York._

A curious case, to say the least. Not in any regard to his conscription, no. He had resided on the _Alopias_ under the command of Captain Merchorre for the remainder of the war, then had been spit out in Schwartzgrad with little to his name sans the sparse documents he’d been given upon his release. No, his time in the service certainly wasn’t interesting—what _was_ , however, was the fact that Captain Merchorre had contacted Foka personally to intervene on York’s behalf. He insisted the Lord Commissar speak to York before passing his verdict. And, well, considering Foka held the captain in such high regard, he couldn’t turn down such a request.

Foka’s office décor was best described as spartan, with little color on the walls asides from a giant map of the Empire on the wall to his right. There was a stagnant quality to the room, owed to the fact that, besides the potted tree on his steel desk perched neatly on the corner, there was not much to draw the eye. Alexei preferred to have as few distractions as possible. He stirred his coffee, waiting patiently for his next appointment to be brought up. He was pleased with the thickness of the dark beverage, which was enough to stand his spoon up straight in the ceramic mug. The aroma wafting upwards was a reminder of the Southern cultures within the Empire, and of his wife’s family. It always managed to help him relax.

He took a thoughtful sip, allowing the gritty liquid to slide slowly to the back of his throat, and heard the door click open. The Lord Commissar watched expressionless as two of his Commissars brought in a slight, bespectacled man with cheap wire glasses and a tuft of strawberry blonde hair atop his head. He wore rumpled gray naval fatigues—likely the same he’d been arrested in. At a glance, deep bags hung under his piercing blue eyes, but otherwise, he was intriguingly unexceptional. Alexei pursed his lips and asked, “Montgomery York, correct?”

The Commissar on the right shoved Montgomery, who hissed, “Watch it, jackboot.” He glared at Alexei and shrugged exaggeratedly. “You got me,” he announced with a bow of his head, before one of the Commissars shook him back upright. He shot another glare back before adding, “I am the one and only.”

“Lack of respect for authority. I see,” Alexei commented, sizing up the peculiar foreigner with a perplexed glint in his dark eyes. “I appreciate that you have taken the time to learn our language… Your pronunciation could use some work though.”

“My apologies,” Montgomery said, curtly rolling his eyes. “My vocabulary was hindered considerably aboard the _Alopias_. Though I could offer some swears if you would prefer.” One of the Commissars behind him slapped the back of his head, nearly knocking his glasses off, and the choice words quickly followed.

“You may leave us. I can take it from here,” Alexei said with a quick hand gesture to his men as he stood up. They saluted and left. Calmly he walked over, almost meditative, and paused. “Your hand. Let me see it.”

Montgomery stared at him warily, raising his chained hands. His fist was tightly clinched because he was trying to control the involuntary shake that would randomly plague him ever since the battle on the North Sea. Sheepishly he started, “It- it’s—”

“I understand,” Alexei stopped him, putting it together, holding his mug against his chest. He mused aloud, “The modern machines of war are ones that man was never meant to stand before… I do not envy those who experienced the thunder of battle firsthand. I take it the nightmares are pretty bad?”

His statement was oddly consoling and caused Montgomery to relax his guard momentarily. “Yeah.”

“Trust me. Both will pass in time,” Alexei said, reflecting on his own experience on the border conflicts with a kingdom long since integrated into the Empire. A serious look came to his face, “I will be blunt. The only reason we are speaking at all is because Comrade Salvio specifically requested I give you a chance. Let’s show some respect, otherwise this will be a short interrogation.”

Montgomery straightened his back, recognizing the instant change in tone. He adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat. “Forgive my callousness. It’s been hard to keep pace with everything going on.” Squinting at the Lord Commissar’s black uniform, he said, “Forgive my ignorance, but I do not even know what I stand accused of.”

“Involvement in a conspiracy to undermine our war effort.” Alexei answered without inflection, interested in his reaction.

“Huh… Fair enough, then,” Montgomery responded, finding it logical given the circumstances. “So how does this proceed?”

“That depends, I suppose,” Alexei answered vaguely, taking a sip of coffee. “Are you a saboteur?”

“What a ridiculous question. Of course not,” Montgomery snapped back, insulted by the accusation. With a rattle of chains, he declared, “Do you honestly think I had time to sabotage anything? For pity’s sake, I have hardly been alone the last three years! It’s maddening!”

“Hmm…” Alexei seemed more interested in his coffee, considering he was staring into it. His eyes flicked to his prisoner. “I take it you hold our Empire with contempt for conscripting you, then?”

Montgomery’s brow furrowed deeply and he shook his head. “If anything, I am grateful. I was as good as dead in the Federation. Captain Merchorre gave me another chance. I am proud to call the Imperial Alliance home.”

Alexei took a step back. “Even a traitor can profess undying loyalty, Montgomery.” He shuffled back to to his desk and pointed to the chair across from it. “But do not think I have not reviewed your record. It is exceptional—doubly so, all things considered. Under different circumstances, I am certain Salvio would have recommended you for a medal.” He paused. “But innocence must be proven by the accused. So, now, please let us begin.” He indicated to the chair again.

Montgomery came over and slid into the seat, appreciating he was at least not being held in a windowless cell. Thinking of a way to defend himself, he said, “And how exactly am I suppose to do that? Three years I spent on that ship. Never once did I leave it unless I was granted permission, and in those cases, I spent them in the library.” With an edge in his voice he asked, “Shouldn’t we have had this conversation much earlier?”

“Yes. We should have… An unfortunate oversight. But there was a war on,” Alexei explained, seeing no reason to cover the truth in this regard.

He shuffled a paper on his desk and move on. “Your reading list is indeed interesting.” Books ranging from the first Emperor’s own political manifesto on the role of the state, a history textbook on the War of the Valkyur, and a Yggidist pamphlet about the Darcsen Calamity, to a Latin dictionary, and even a romanticist novel about the revolution in Valois. That book specifically was quickly confiscated from the library and burned. “These all indicate a man trying to learn. Commendable, but how can I know you did not intentionally choose these in order to avoid suspicion? Perhaps… you have an objective that is yet to be completed.”

“Oh, please don’t be daft,” Montgomery scoffed, leaning back in the uncomfortable chair, which creaked under his weight. He held up a finger. “My conscription was involuntary, true enough. But regardless, these last three years have been eye-opening. This country… is something amazing. People work together toward a common goal. To make their motherland strong, rather than pursuing their own fanciful whims. In Edinburgh, I was an outsider. Here though, in this Empire, I have found a home.” Taking it further, he pointed his finger straight at the Lord Commissar. “My loyalty is genuine. Give me a way to prove my innocence and I will do so without hesitation.”

Alexei cocked his head, enraptured by the passionate demand. Especially coming from a man who, for all intents and purposes, would be just a commoner in this highly stratified state. He put a hand on his chin, considering his options. Normally a polygraph or a truth serum would his first choice when questioning a potential suspect.

However, in this case, he had something different in mind. More extreme, granted, but one he believed could sort the matter out totally. Slowly he leaned forward, his eyes narrowing intently on Montgomery’s face. “Very well, York.” Without elaboration, he pulled out a key ring and tossed it over to the sitting man.

Montgomery hesitated with uncertainty, then carefully unlocked his shackles as his heart started to race. The heavy weight of apprehension settled in his gut. As he did this, the Lord Commissar removed his side arm in a quick motion, and seemed to double check that it was loaded before sliding it across the table. “I have already said anyone can profess loyalty. Traitors or patriots… Devotion can only be properly measured by one’s willingness to sacrifice everything.”

The demand was clear, and Montgomery stared in stunned silence at the pistol now in front of him. The whole room felt as though it was rocking gently, a chill of panic crawling on his neck, like he’d been dropped into the North Sea. His stomach churned again, more violently, and remained frozen in place. As a noticeable line of sweat formed on his brow, he reached out to carefully pick up the pistol.

It was cold to the touch, and Montgomery could almost hear the sharp sound of clasping metal as he’d knowingly stepped into the trap. Either way, loyal or not, he was going to die. Knowing hesitation would only make him appear guilty, he rotated the barrel to bring it up. Surprisingly, he felt oddly at ease with the affair. Despite his earlier assertions, transition to Imperial life had been far from smooth. Not to mention his memories of the last three years, which had never failed to resurface when he laid his head down at night.

The idea of being able to rest finally was appealing, in its own way. The little voice in his head did find it unfortunate, to survive the most deadly conflict in human history to date, only to die in a dingy administrative office with such hideous furnishing.

The tremble in his hand started to spread, and he couldn’t control the quiver of his shoulders. He glanced over at Alexei, who only offered him an indifferent glance. “I mean, truthfully, you could shoot me if that is what you would prefer. Then your guilt is all but confirmed,” the older man offered dryly.

Montgomery’s eyes darted away, focusing on the ugly plant on the desk as he pushed the barrel into his mouth, the metal clattering against his teeth. The taste of steel stuck to his dry tongue and he exhaled once, loudly pulling the trigger.

There was a soft click and Montgomery’s face lost what little color it had left. He made a startled noise, dropping the pistol to the ground shaking uncontrollably. He was nearly hyperventilating, jumping to his feet and kicking the front of the desk. “What kind of sadistic game are you playing!?”

Alexei looked up at him wearing a completely serene expression. With a gentle, almost apologetic tone, he said. “Montgomery York. You are innocent.”

Montgomery’s head swam as though he’d been submerged in freezing water. He moaned once, nearly doubling over. “I am going to—” was what he got out, before covering his mouth, as he stumbled away from the desk.

“The washroom is down the hall on the right. Return immediately and we shall discuss your future,” Alexei said, pushing his coffee mug to the side and reaching into his desk drawer for citizenship papers.

-

With his vision blurring, Montgomery held a hand over his mouth and staggered out from the office. He nearly collapsed, but managed to find his grip on the wall in order to steady himself.

Once in the solitude of the lavatory, Montgomery parted with the contents of his stomach and nearly passed out on the cold tile floor afterwards. Sitting there, he pushed against the wall, feeling sweat form on his brow. He was alive, that much he was sure—but the observation did little to calm his heartbeat which thumped against his chest at a frightful speed. For a split second, it felt like he was back in the water, floating in the wreckage of the Hadleigh.

A chill crawled down his spin and Montgomery shivered uncomfortably. When his vision cleared, he stood and made his way to the porcelain sink against the wall near the door. He turned on the faucet, letting a steady stream run down the drain, and then removed his glasses to shove them haphazardly into his pocket.

Montgomery proceeded to drop down, gulping down the cold water until he stopped to splash some on his face. He stared at himself in the mirror, taking several deep breaths, trying to be certain he was in fact still alive.

His hand still shook violently, but otherwise he remained completely fine. After a short pep talk, Montgomery fixed his appearance the best he could and turned off the sink, leaving the bathroom a few shades paler.

-

When Montgomery reentered Alexei’s office, he found the Lord Commissar tending to the only smattering of color in the room aside from the red door itself: a peculiar miniature tree on his desk, nestled in a square pot. He was gently talking to it, as if it were a pet. “There we are, dear. All better now.” He didn’t glance at the door, only sitting back and holding out a folder. “Welcome back, York. I went ahead and prepared the proper documentation for you to become a citizen of the Imperial Alliance… If you so desire, I can expedite the process.”

Montgomery briefly considered throttling the man, but instead made a fist controlling his rage. He took a shaky breath and walked over to the desk, taking the papers from him. “Just like that? …You didn’t prove anything.”

Alexei made a face and finished trimming the tree. “A guilty man would never have been prepared to die for our Empire.” He paused, examining his work, then said, “Death is a certainty. A dead man is no longer a threat. A living man, no matter what he says, is a risk.” He straightened up and leaned back, clasping his hands atop the desk. “I cannot read souls, but I am the one who condemns them.”

“How utterly insane,” Montgomery retorted curtly, although it was clear his attention was now focused on the immigration forms. He shuffled through them, noticing they were almost completely filled out. He pondered if the whole charade was a setup.

“Is it? We are not the Federation, York,” Alexei said, crossing his legs and gesturing over to the map on the wall. It showed the East European Imperial Alliance in red, surrounded by states in blue. “We do not have the luxury to let even one traitor slip through the cracks. The war may be over, but our enemies still seek to bury us.” He paused thoughtfully. “…Truthfully, nothing has changed. We remain under siege, and only by ensuring all our people remain at a state of readiness, will we survive.”

Montgomery wasn’t really paying attention, still uneasy that everything up to this point had been planned in advance. He pushed the idea away and asked, “I assume my citizenship to the United Kingdom is void?”

Alexei raised an eyebrow, confused by the question, “What citizenship? You perished along with the rest of the Hadleigh’s crew—quite the disaster, might I add.” He turned back to face Montgomery. “I was under the impression you did not care. We never processed any outgoing mail from you.”

Montgomery fell silent. It was true, he had never tried to write his parents to let them know about his survival; he certainly felt an intense guilt for not even trying. He mumbled to himself “Dead…” While discomforting, the word also provided a kind of comfort. Freeing, in its own right, from any past obligations. He might even be able to reinvent himself.

“Tell me, what do you plan to do now?” Alexei asked, rudely interrupting, resting both hands on his own knee. “Do you intend to stay with the Navy? I am sure Salvio would be delighted.”

“I, uh…well, I was hoping to finish my degree.” Montgomery said softly, finding a knot in the center of his chest.

“Interesting. The University of Schwartzgrad is certainly open to our veterans,” Alexai said, almost disappointed by the predictable answer. He held up a hand. “Although, let me say, I think going back to civilian life is a waste of your talents. Allow me propose a different course: I have use for men who know the West and the truth that lurks behind its false promises of freedom.” He lowered his arm and spoke clearly, “Become a Commissar, Comrade York. You have already shown yourself willing to give up everything for our motherland. I could not ask for anything more.”

The offer was out in the air now, and Montgomery found himself completely at a loss. He had no clue what being a Commissar would even mean. This moment in itself was the extent of his experience with the men in black. Yet he knew the man’s words held some truth: he found the lack of structure to civilian life distasteful, and the idea of being forced to adjust back to it was nauseating.

There were also plenty of other factors at play: none more powerful than the dark seed of ambition that the war had planted in his heart. It buried itself in what was left of his deeply rooted revolutionary ideals, most of which had been long abandoned after bearing witness to the incredible transformative capability of autocracy and the hypnotic allure of nationalism. If it was he in command of such authority, then it could be wielded like a tool, used to build a more peaceful Europe. It was not what Mulde, nor Henry, wanted—but at this point, while Montgomery still admired both men, he was fully prepared to discard their imagined judgment.

He stood up slowly, an unsettling grin crawling across his face as he offered a hand to the man across the table. “Thank you for this opportunity, Lord Commissar. I am most grateful.”

Alexei found the reaction intriguing. With a knowing smile, he shook the outstretch hand. “Very good. We can begin immediately.”

-

In the weeks that followed, Montgomery spent most of his time learning the duties and role of an Imperial Commissar. The process was expedited due to the deteriorating conditions within the country, and soon enough he was kneeling in front of the Emperor himself, taking an oath of absolute loyalty. In the hallowed Imperial Palace of the divine monarch, Montgomery swore to serve the Empire as a shadow.

Keeping with formalities he was also offered knighthood, and promptly attempted to reject the mostly symbolic rank, claiming service to the country he loved was more then enough. However, the Emperor and the aristocracy held great stock in tradition, so in the end Montgomery was made to relent. He even accepted an ornately-crafted longsword with beautiful art of the two-headed Imperial eagle on the hilt. He found it rather tacky, and gave it a fitting place in his house, mounted across from the toilet in his bathroom.

It was certainly not an ideal time to be a Commissar, as only a few days later, the tensions plaguing the Empire finally reached the breaking point when the workers at both Krimm and Mustala went on strike. They declared they would no longer produce weapons for the military, and in support, thousands of citizens poured into the streets of Schwartzgrad to demand an end to the nobility’s monopoly on power. Predictably, the army was swiftly deployed to regain control of the situation, throwing even more ragoline onto an already raging fire.

The grand city was filled with angry cries as shouts for change rang out over from every street corner. In an ironic twist, Montgomery was nowhere to be found; instead, he was sitting in a local park, wearing his distinctive uniform which draped around his body like wings. He was engrossed in reading the Yggdist thesis about the Darcsen population’s role in the Empire’s tragic loss. He found it to be an absolutely impressive piece of propaganda that clearly defined the danger posed the minority’s connection to nations surrounding the Imperial State.

The sound of footsteps caused him to glanced up to see his partner Friedhold approaching, who quickly took a seat on the bench to his right. He crossed his legs dramatically and Montgomery nodded in acknowledgment. “Good read I take it?” Friedhold asked conversationally.

“Indeed it is. Very concise. The Lord Commissar did an excellent job,” Montgomery said, dog-earing the page he was on before shutting it. “Has there been a development?”

“Foka just sighed off on the directive. We are to begin rounding up the Darcsen in an hour,” Friedhold said, staring forward at a large tree across from them. Its shadow crept across the grass, stopping just short of their boots. “Disappointing, to say the least. Like always, Krimm and Mustala get off despite their crimes against the people.” He rubbed underneath his chin and grumbled, “But its always easier to blame the dark-hairs. That way we do not have to question our motherland’s decay.”

Friedhold’s pessimism always stood out among the other Commissars, but Montgomery had found it to be born out of a powerful belief that the Empire needed to always strive to be better. York pushed on the bridge of his glasses and replied, “An easier solution is not necessarily a bad thing in this regard, comrade. Right now the situation must be brought under control. Open revolt only serves to weaken us in the eyes of the West.”

“Hmm. You would say that,” Friedhold said with a knowing look. Changing the topic, he reached into his jacket and removed a folder. “But regardless, right now our concerns are different.”

“Do not tell me…” Montgomery muttered, already guessing at the contents. Sure enough, flipping it open, he found a few photographs of a dead woman who had been stabbed in one of the city’s numerous winding alleyways. “He certainly works fast. It’s only been a day.”

“Makes the total six, not counting the Darcsen,” Friedhold said dryly, brooding on the fact the serial murderer continued to allude them. “This time, though, he’s made a mistake. Baron Ignat is practically raising an army himself.” By the time York looked up, Friedhold had a cigarette between his teeth, the smell of smoke lingering around them.

He shut the report and handed it back over. “Our motherland is on the eve of revolution and this madman thinks its a good time to start killing again.” He shut his book and stood up. “We truly live in an extraordinary time.”

“Invigorating, isn’t it?” Friedhold said, taking another puff before standing as well. He jerked his head toward the black Kubelwagen waiting at the on side of the street. “We better get there quick, else the rabble will contaminate the scene.”

-

With the Great War’s chapter of Europe’s history coming to a close, many historians looked to the future with hope. They wrote about a farewell to arms and the coming age of diplomacy, where words solved problems instead of bullets. But in the ever changing case of Montgomery York, and men like him, there was no end to the conflict. How could there be? The Federation still existed, its bayonets pointed at front gates of the Empire.

For the first time in his life, Montgomery felt like he was in a position to change the world. He approached his new role as Commissar with the values he brought with him: namely, a deep admiration for the lower classes of society, the destitute and the damned who were ignored by the Imperial nobility. He felt an inherit brotherhood with the peasant communities and their diverse cultures, incorporating numerous elements from the various ethnic groups present within the every expanding borders of the state.

It was his firm belief that these peoples represented the true face of his motherland; because of that, he tended to trust the testimony of poor over those with affluence. The nickname “Peasant Commissar” was spoken in hushed tones both by those who condemned his actions, and those who admired him. He became something of a bogeyman, shrouded in black to those with power and a folk hero to the peasantry.

While within the Commissariat’s ranks, Commissars like Friedhold found his reform-minded attitude commendable. Together, the two men ultimately founded their own internal faction, boldy declaring their own goal to remind the organization of its intended purpose to serve the Imperial Alliance and all its people, regardless of status.

The writing was on the wall, yet at the time, Foka paid them little attention. Instead he found their passion admirable. Montgomery was secure on his perch. He had settled in, and on one evening as he was getting comfortable in his state-issued apartment building in the center of Schwartzgrad, a reminder of his past reared its head.

He was sitting in a leather armchair, flipping through the latest copy of Veritas while a cup of tea and toast sat on the table, when a small article caught his eye. The title read: _Guilty verdict for the Revolutionists!_

As if on cue, Montgomery’s hand started to shake—just a small tremor, but one that was enough to enrage him briefly. The realization that his old comrade’s luck had finally run out settled on him heavily, filling him with an intense, incomprehensible sadness. During the war, Henry had tried to incite a mutiny against the draft in one of the United Kingdom’s distant colonies, only to be foiled in the end by the quick work of the Federation’s own secret police. His and his co-conspirator’s show trial was a highly publicized affair in the West, but not so much in the East, as the Imperial elite cared little how the Federation handled dissent. Even if the hypocrisy was not lost.

Knowing that Henry was to be put to death prompted an odd sensation in Montgomery’s chest. It felt like a little flutter, as if his heart had briefly stopped. The draconian verdict did not surprise him, per se, but there was a finality inherit to it. In that instant, a door to his former life had been flung open and then immediately slammed shut after flooding his mind with troublesome thoughts.

Leaning back in his chair, Montgomery lowered the paper and placed it onto the side table next to him. He gripped his tea cup tightly while staring up at the ceiling, begrieved. Sighing wistfully, he tapped his finger against the warm glass in his hand. “You were always too noble, Henry… Bloody fool.”

There was a remorseful quality to the words, and they hung in the air over him. Slowly, subtly, they began to dissipate, allowing the heavy weight on his shoulders to vanish as well. An unnerving smile came to his face and he set the cup down, standing up. He pulled back the gray curtains to see if anyone was outside, still smirking. He now knew that his path was correct. “Very well then. Allow me to take over from here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick update: Part 4’s draft has hit thirty pages and I'm not even close to wrapping it up. I had hope it could be shortened, but currently it looks like it might wind up being as ambitious as Part 3. I also have a few other origin side stories planned, but we're aiming to keep them under two chapters each.  
> As always, thanks for reading.


	6. Free Day at Kriegstotcher

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This scene was originally intended for Part 2, but wound up being cut because Chiara was already getting too much favoritism. I still wound up writing it out as a side story, so hopefully this might clarify why she warmed up to Gunther faster than Nikola (along with clearing up a few other loose ends.)
> 
> This is set somewhere vaguely between Parts 1 and 2, but I’ll leave it up to the reader to decide exactly when this takes place. For future scenes, I’m hoping to get back to focusing on Nikola and Chiara’s relationship, since that’s the reason I started CoS.

Considered a black book project by the Imperial Commissariat, Operation Assam was granted certain freedoms, both economically and doctrinally, few of the Empire’s military units enjoyed. As such, Commissar Ludwig took plenty of liberties when it came to command; namely, he practiced a hands-off approach to leadership. He generally left Nikola and Chiara to their own devices when it came to organizing Kriegstotcher, since they would be the ones leading the brigade on the frontline. He considered his role was more that of an overseer—a guiding presence that was only necessary if either girl was becoming a bit overzealous.

At first, both girls were a little skittish, worried they would invoke the wrath of their perceived new master. But as the weeks passed without incident, much less a reprimand, they began to fall back into their preferred domineering approach when interacting with their soldiers.

It was yet another cold morning that they found themselves standing in front of the line of faceless, black-armored troopers, sunlight barely peeking over the tree line. Nikola punched the palm of her hand, barking at the line of blank faces in front of her, “Alright, you lazy mongrels! We are practicing squad tactics again!”

A small chorus of groans began to respond, but they were quickly cut off by a crack of Chiara’s black bullwhip. “No complaining! We only have a few weeks left to prepare for deployment!” The two had been running the unit ragged since it had dawned on them that they’d need to prove themselves useful to the Commissariat soon.

Gunther’s voice could be heard from the back of the mass of men. “I warned you guys. We should have buried that thing.”

There was an obnoxious snort from another man. “Shut up, Trofim. You know damn well she would be able to sniff it out.”

Chiara twitched and let the whip fly again. It whistled through the air, cracking just above the heads of the front row of men. “Just for that, we are going to do live fire drills, too!” She started to cackle as another wave of discontent rolled over the ranks.

Nikola opened her mouth to speak, but was interrupted by the door of the headquarters opened; from the tent stepped an exhausted-looking Karl. Deep bags hung under his eyes, and he shuffled over to them sluggishly, two cigarettes hanging out of his mouth. He’d been secluded for two days straight for reasons unknown to the rest of the unit. Nikola and Chiara froze, falling silent and exchanging uneasy glances.

He stared down at them both blankly and hesitated, rubbing his neck. His eyes flicked over to the exhausted soldiers, then back the two girls, finally nodding. “That is enough for today.”

“Sir!?” Nikola responded, surprised by his sudden interference, especially on what felt like the eve of battle. A pit of worry formed her stomach as she became concerned they had stepped out of line. Chiara stayed quiet, hiding her treasured whip behind her thigh.

“I am giving everyone the day off,” Karl said dryly, turning back to the rest of the unit. He waved his hand disinterestedly. “You are all dismissed. Enjoy yourselves.”

Everyone seemed taken aback by his overruling of Nikola and Chiara, but it didn’t take long for the men to disperse. Gottfried and Fedor decided to try to cook up some of the fresh meat, allegedly caught by Sorina a few nights ago. The sniper, who was clawing at the bandages around her stomach, muttered something cryptic before hastily making for the barracks. Siegward, disappointed to to miss a chance to train, left for the practice range with Gunther in tow.

Chiara watched as the men scattered and crossed her arms with a huff. “Commissar Ludwig! Explain yourself.”

The edge of disrespect to her tone did not bother Karl; he had long since come to accept a certain level of brattiness from his two agents. He shrugged half-heartedly. “Rest is good. Improves morale and keeps everyone fresh.”

“Rest also makes soldiers soft,” Nikola protested, placing both hands on her hips and staring up at him.

“Maybe. But one day won’t hurt anything,” Karl responded, his mind preoccupied with an unusual report on his desk about recent developments on the Gallian front. A special forces squad had successfully crossed the border and managed to raid an Imperial supply base, causing immense damage. It was a bit more of a pressing matter for him at the moment.

He cocked his head thoughtfully and asked, “If you have nothing to do, I could actually use some help organizing some paperwork.”

Chiara made a face at the suggestion of doing something so tedious, but Nikola’s eyes lit up as she leaped at the opportunity to be useful. “I can do that!” she answered.

Karl nodded and motioned with his head for her to follow. As they walked away, he stopped and turned back around to see Chiara just standing there, a pout firmly rested on her lip. He sighed. Separating them outright was bad form, but he still offered, “Agent. Why don’t you go find Trofim? He has been working on something special for you both.”

Chiara looked down at her boot and kicked up some snow, grumbling. “Fine.” She watched them both leave, chewing the side of her cheek and trying to decide if she should be mad at Nikola for being such a suck-up. She decided to put a grenade under her partner’s cot later in retaliation.

-

It did not take long for Chiara to find Gunther. He was seated on a nearby stump, looking on with an impressed expression as Siegward switched to his left hand, preparing to strike a practice dummy. As she approached, she heard the engineer say, “You serious, Sieg?”

Siegward swung wide, his blade catching the dummy in the neck, before pausing. “Why are you surprised? The pay was going to be lousy. Besides, the Hochmeister is a strange fellow. At least Lord Commissar York is honest about his expectations.”

“Still…” Gunther seemed impressed, putting his hand under his chin. “It’s not every day someone gets to meet the All Father, let alone get an offer to serve in his personal guard.”

“Too good to be true, you mean,” Siegward said, critically examining how far his sword had embedded itself in the practice dummy. He was unsatisfied with the result; such a heavy weapon should have cut deeper.

Chiara interrupted them by clearing her throat obnoxiously and said, “Yeah, yeah. Cram it, pretty boy.” She pointed at the engineer. “You there. Giant.”

“Oh, always a pleasure to speak to you, Agent.” Gunther said, tipping the brim of his cap casually.

“Don’t mock me,” Chiara snarled brusquely, having never been able to tell if his upbeat attitude was genuine. “Commissar Ludwig told me you were working on something for me and Nikola,”

Gunther paused, holding onto his hat, “Yeah… I could be.”

“I want to see it,” Chiara said, dropping her hand dramatically down next to the whip hooked to her belt.

“Right now? But it isn’t done yet,” Gunther replied, warily watching her hand as it lingered just above the intimidating whip.

Chiara shook her head and dug her boot into the snow-covered ground, twisting it until she could see the brown dirt underneath. “Not my problem. I am bored and Nikola is a kiss-ass.” She held out her arms. “So you get the honor of entertaining me.”

“Wow, Trofim. Lucky you,” Siegward said, this time putting both hands on his sword as he adjusted his footing. He glanced back at her. “If you plan to gut him or something else brutish, just know he owes a lot of us money.”

Gunther chuckled, embarrassed by his streak of bad luck. Chiara frowned, finding the quip unamusing. “I don’t believe I spoke to _you._ Just keep playing with that pathetic thing you call a weapon.”

“Charming,” Siegward muttered, not even sure why he bothered. He lifted the sword up and brought full weight down onto the dummy’s shoulder.

Gunther stood dusting the snow off the back of his pants. “Okay, okay, since you asked so politely.”

“I am glad you noticed,” Chiara said, flashing her teeth before suppressing the smile. She followed after the engineer, but not before she whipped around and stuck a tongue out at the nobleman’s back.

-

Even though his commander was right behind him, Gunther decided to try and lighten the mood by taking long exaggerated steps in the snow. As his boot disappeared into the white drift, he jokingly said, “You know, maybe in a few days we will be taking orders from a pair of berets.”

“Wow, you are _so_ funny,” Chiara said with a roll of her eyes. She was used to the jokes about their small size.

“I know, but don’t worry. I’m sure you’re due for a growth spurt anytime now,” Gunther said, opting to press her buttons a little more to see if he could get a proper reaction. “With a little luck, maybe your heads will stick out just above the surface.”

“Or maybe I will stand on your shoulders instead,” Chiara said, roughly jabbing her finger into his side and causing him to flinch. Unsatisfied, she shoved him, causing the engineer to stumble and barely caught himself. She snickered. “Careful, now.”

Gunther found her behavior a welcome change from all the yelling he’d grown accustomed to. He held up his hands and said, “My mistake. I should have predicted rogue limbs.” She attempted to trip him this time, but he managed to step over her foot. “Missed me.”

“Oh yeah?” This time Chiara danced around and nimbly reached into his pockets. From them, she pulled out a leather wallet and a pack of cigarettes.

Gunther’s face grew visibly paler. Panicked, he said, “Hold on! I need those!”

He tried to snatch them from her, but she jerked away and walked backwards, grinning ear to ear. “Kehehe. Too easy!” With a mischievous glint in her eye, she paused and cocked her head. “Who do you like more, Trofim?”

Gunther stopped and looked down at her, perplexed. “Huh?” He inched his hand around, hoping for an opening to get his wallet back.

“Me or Nikola,” Chiara clarified, stepping back and keeping just out of his reach with a malicious grin.

The question had a searching quality to it as she watched his face closely. Gunther thought for a moment and sighed, “You both scare me to death.”

The answer was disappointing. Chiara decided to channel her partner, pushing out her lower lip. “That is really mean. We happen to think you are cool.”

“Seriously?” Gunther asked, unconvinced by her tone, but when she batted her eyelashes he shrugged. “Well, if that’s the case—”

“Ha! Gotcha,” Chiara exclaimed. She laughed at him, pleased with herself as she dropped his cigarettes. “Here, you can keep these disgusting things.”

Gunther lunged for the pack, grabbing it with surprising finesse just before it landed in the snow. He sighed in relief and tapped a cigarette out, grabbing it with his teeth. He checked his other pocket and tugged out a lighter. “You are most gracious.” He hesitated, eyeing her suspiciously before lighting it. When she didn’t seem to be making a move to steal from him again, he lit it and took a puff.

“I am! You would do well to remember my kindness,” Chiara responded, exuding overconfidence. She continued to hold his wallet, however, and said, “Going to keep this for now. You can have it back if what you show me is interesting.”

“Fair enough. Trust me, I am pretty happy with it,” Gunther replied, confident in his work. The two made for the small tent secluded near the edge of the camp by the motor pool, which he considered his workshop.

Inside the tent, Chiara was hit by a wall of horrible smells; the overpowering stench of ragoline was the most recognizable, but there was also a more subtle chemical odor she couldn’t quite place. It was vaguely familiar, though, and she reckoned it was something she’d come across in Belgar’s laboratory. Trying to suppress a gag, she rubbed at her eyes which were starting to water in the pungent air. “Gah, how do you work in here!?” She bumped into a table near the door, causing a glass jar of some mysterious black substance to tumble to the ground.

“Whoa there. That one is explosive,” Gunther said, making no moves to pick it up. Instead he moved toward the back of the small interior. Muttering to himself, he added, “The trick is to breath through your mouth.”

Tasting something metallic in the back of her throat, Chiara quickly moved to open the tent flap again, gasping for fresh air. She took several deep breaths before plunging back into the stale air. Her vision clear now, she looked around. She noticed a disassembled sniper rifle on a war bench and put a hand on her hip, unimpressed. “Is this it? Looks stupid.”

“Huh? Ah, no. Sorina asked me to check the firing mechanism. It’s prone to sticking,” Gunther responded, dropping down onto his knees next to a metal crate. He popped it open. “I tell you, Zechmeister must be trying to kill us. Every new series somehow gets even heavier than the last.”

“Hmph,” Chiara grunted, walking to him and looking over his shoulder curiously. In one hand, Gunther was holding a rolled up blueprint, and in the other the nock of a bolt, though she recognized it was missing a head. “You do know that isn’t going to kill anyone, right? Dummy.”

“Correct. Glad to see you are not blind,” Gunther said cheekily around the cigarette in his mouth, standing back up.

“I might as well be in this disgusting place,” Chiara retorted, her eyes still burning. She took a step back allowing him to move over to the workbench.

“No reason to be rude,” Gunther said, feigning offense as he unrolled the blueprint. “Take a look. The nock is just a universal prototype so I can get a feel for the dimensions.”

Chiara stared wordlessly at the diagram in front of her. There was a rough sketch depicting a small, pressure sensitive canister which was supposed to create a cloud of smoke when it connected with a solid object. There was a bunch of illegible scribbling around the blueprint, which she attempted to read before her head began to throb. Her reaction was predictable; after her eye was done twitching, she smirked. “This looks useless.”

Gunther actually seemed hurt by her reaction and hastily rolled the paper back up. He protested, “It’s not useless! Smoke can save lives!” To add to his argument, he blew a puff of cigarette smoke out from his nose, creating a fresh cloud in the tent.

“Hah! Why would I want to do that?” Chiara sneered as she waved her hand, trying to avoid getting a face full of smoke. “It is not my problem if someone gets killed.” Her demeanor shifted and the light faded from her eyes as they darted to the right uneasily. “Anything that engenders passivity should be avoided.”

While she knew exactly who she was quoting, Gunther did not; he scratched his cheek, baffled by the suggestion. “Really? Someone better tell that to the rest of our army then. Running headlong in to machine gunfire without any kind of barrier is hardly standard practice.”

Chiara couldn’t suppress the responding eye twitch. She found his suggestion incomprehensible and started to argue, “Obviously because most of our army is a bunch of cowards! It’s always better to shoot your enemy before they react!”

“Brilliant logic,” Gunther said sarcastically, and in response she kicked him in the shin. “Ow! Watch those spikes!” He reached down, checking if she had managed to draw blood, and was relieved to find that was not the case.

“I am not stupid, you know?” Chiara grumbled, crossing her arms in a huff. “There were a few times a smokescreen could have helped us.” She remembered her and Nikola’s skirmish on the Crystal Sea and the flat plains of snow, which provided little cover from the Hafen’s machine gun.

“Then what’s so wrong with giving your… Dunkel more utility now?” Gunther asked, failing to see the problem. He moved his leg back hoping to avoid the toe of her boot.

“Because Nikola and I are not the same as the rest of you weaklings,” Chiara insisted, frustrated he wasn’t hearing her. “We kill. Let someone else worry about protecting the men.”

Gunther’s brow furrowed, taking another puff. Trying to be reconcilatory he said, “Well … Consider this, then.” He leaned forward, willing to take a risk to be eye level with her. She avoided his gaze, staring at the sniper rifle. “Surely killing a blinded enemy is something that could be fun, right? And if using this,” he waved the rolled paper, “happens to keep some of the rest of us alive too, then that is good too.”

Chiara shifted, finding his genuine attempt at reasoning with her oddly reassuring. She relaxed a little, allowing a small smile to form on her mouth, and nodded, “I guess that could be fun… Hehe… Especially if we get to play with our prey.”

Deciding it was best not to ask for details, Gunther straightened up, “Worth a try, at the very least.” He put a hand on his chin in thought. “Still a lot of daytime left… Hmm.” He walked away and started to rummage through a pile of junk. After a few minutes he returned, holding another crate.

He placed it in front of her and Chiara could see several dark brown bottles, all labeled with faded yellow ovals that were grinning. She touched the smooth glass with her finger and asked, “What is this?”

“A secret,” Gunther said vaguely as he smoothly pulled one out and used the side of the workbench to pop off the cap. There was a sharp hiss and he took a sip. Satisfied, he sighed. “It’s still good.” He gestured to the crate, “Help yourself. We should celebrate.”

Chiara squinted at the label again, finding its jovial cartoon unsettling. She leaned so close, she ended up bumping her head against the cool glass. In the end, she shook her head, “No thanks. I bet it’s gross.”

She was just about to leave and go find someone else to harass when Gunther said, “I am surprised. I figured you were at least braver than Agent Graf.”

Chiara bristled, and immediately shot her hand out grabbing a bottle. “I am!” She attempted to copy his method of opening it with some difficulty, but finally managed to pop the cap off. Unwilling to back down now, she tilted her head back and took a swig. Her eyes widened at the taste; it was sharp, sweet—she didn’t recognize the taste at all, but it was _good._

Gunther enjoyed her reaction and asked, “Well?”

The idea began to dawn on her that he might have fooled her. Chiara side-eyed him. “Nikola… would have told me if she drank something this good.”

“Ah. Well that was a lie,” Gunther said, seemingly apologetic. “Just thought it would be nice to share some contraband with my commanding officer.”

Chiara raised an eyebrow, “Contraband?” She held up the bottle uncertainly, swishing the liquid inside. “So this is illegal?”

Seeing her intent, Gunther shrugged. “Yeah. Possession and distribution is punishable by, like, fifteen years of hard labor.” He frowned, trying to remember. “At least that’s what I think Klara told me.”

Chiara did not recognize the name and dramatically put a finger on her cheek. “Huh. So if I, say, reported this transgression to Commissar Ludwig… you would get in trouble.”

“We both would,” Gunther answered, wondering how much she actually knew about the Imperial legal system. “Trust me, though. Someone your size wouldn’t last a minute doing hard labor in the East.”

“What!?” Chiara looked panicked and put the bottle back down. “I didn’t know!” A flash of anger overtook her and she kicked the ground, “You tricked me!”

“Hey, hey,” Gunther said, motioning with his free hand for her to calm down. “Relax, there is absolutely no reason for either of us to get in trouble.” When she still looked worried, he took another long drink and said, “These can be our secret. Just the two of us.”

Chiara slowly inched her hand back to the bottle, grasping its neck. “Just us? Not even Nikola?”

“Absolutely not. She probably _would_ report me,” Gunther said. He found Nikola’s cold demeanor impossible to gauge. “I figured you were cooler than her.”

“Of course I am,” Chiara said, puffing up her chest with pride. She brought the bottle back to her mouth and took another drink. Satisfied, she beamed. “See?” Her smile disappeared as an impressive burp spilled out, causing Gunther to stare at her in surprise.

Embarrassed, her cheeks flushed as Gunther started to laugh. She was about slug him when he quickly tapped his bottle against hers, “Damn, boss. Nice one.”

“Boss?” Chiara wasn’t sure how to process his praise, but could not ignore the warm feeling in her chest.

“Bet I can do better though,” Gunther said, downing the rest of the soda in a several greedy gulps. There was a silence, but soon enough he made a face, a pressure welling up in his throat. A long powerful belch followed, and as it was over he grinned at her.

“Ah!” Chiara stared at him in awe, before finishing her own drink as well. She burped again, but it fell short causing her to kick the workbench, “No fair! You had time to practice!”

“Guilty,” Gunther said gently, finding his commander much more tolerable outside of her shell. He motioned to the remaining four bottles. “But there are plenty left. Next time we get a day off, want a rematch?”

Chiara thought for a moment and finally gave a big toothy grin. “You are going down next time.”

“Whatever you say, boss,” Gunther said, taking her bottle and his own.

“Actually, I have a better idea,” Chiara said grabbing hold of his shoulder. “Firing range. I bet I can totally hit more bulls-eyes than you.”

Gunther paused, but figured he should be surprised. “Okay, boss. I’ll meet you there once I toss these.” He held up the bottles, which made a clinking noise in his hand.

Chiara snickered and made for the exit. “Don’t be late.” She flung open the flap, leaving him alone.


	7. Ragnite-Bound Heart

Despite the best efforts of Imperial historians, the exact date of the Valkyur’s arrival on the Northern coasts of Europe remains a mystery. Like the frigid northern winds they came, so said history, spreading across the continent and mercilessly subjugating those who resisted them. They built great monuments and castles as testaments to their rule over all which snow fell. Legends of the Valkyur’s miracles persisted longer than the ancient race itself—their abrupt disappearance was seemingly only recorded in the absence of historical evidence. The once-magnificent capital of the sprawling empire crumbled, devoid of inhabitants; without rule it was reclaimed by the former servants of the Old Lords, who soon became the new rulers of the land.

It would be foolish to assume all of the Valkyur simply evaporated into thin air. As some historians suggested, they integrated into the growing native populations without bloodshed. Other remnants receded from the world entirely, isolating themselves from all outside influences in order to cling to their ancient traditions. One such community persisted on the edges of the Far Eastern Empire for decades into the new century. These Wittewijven became the subject of numerous local legends, tales of beings who could shape ragnite as though it were second nature. Their feats were more incredible than any machine, and, if presented with a proper offering, they could heal any ailment.

Yet lengthy survival came at great cost; with each sickly child born, the aging population dwindled. Long before Europe erupted into the systematic industrial slaughter of the first Great War, a joint expedition of Imperial and Far Eastern explorers found the village empty. Stone hovels were overgrown with moss and vines, a stark reminder that no matter how powerful, no one could resist the march of time.

A lone trail of foot tracks leading out into the woods was ignored by the explorers. In their disregard, the last remnant of the tribe left on her own journey: a sole child just barely five foot, her wiry hair obsidian and eyes a dull brown. The child was spotted by a peasant boy playing nearby, though the boy took one look at the sores on her arms and fled in terror.

His fear bothered the child little; she continued to venture into the unknown alone. In her possession was a faded torn map of the region, documenting the location of several outposts of the Valkyur. The beginning of her journey found her seeking out other remnants of their kind, hoping to find someone who may have an answer to her affliction. As she searched, though, she was only met with crumbling ruins and the bipedal insects looting them. She would wait days, watching the animals study the empty temples, though what _they_ could possibly be searching for, she could not glean.

As time passed, the child knew she would need to alter her approach. Her hair began to grow white like the snow, and her eyes deepened to an empty ruby red. The agonizing sores continued to plague her, ragnite tearing her flesh as it pushed its way outward. It became her routine, in order to mitigate the pain, by breaking off the crystals before they could fully form and bandaging herself when the supplies could be found.

Her search carried her into adulthood, where her affliction only continued to worsen. Even the simple act of breathing became difficult; each heartbeat was accompanied with chronic pain, as though her ribs were secured with razor wire. Learning to live with it ultimately hardened her to the suffering of others. As she traveled, she bore witness to the cruelty of humanity and its bloodthirsty nature, cultivating a deep disdain for mankind. It was a feeling that grew considerably as their war machines were set into motion; she was forced to vacate from many ruins prematurely as their arms race pushed the major powers to uncover all the Valkyur knew. It was in the quiet of a yet-unearthed ruin that she found a new direction in the form of a stone tablet that pointed her to the resting place of the Old Lords. She was familiar with the West, thanks to the oral stories carried by the elders of her village. Within a few weeks, the valkyria had smuggled herself across the border into the East Europan Imperial Alliance by riding beneath a humble potato farmer’s truck.

Thus, her search had begun anew. It didn’t take long for rumors of a dark lord, a Crow whose spirit was inhuman, to reach her ears. It was hard to tell if the whispers were ones of admiration or fear, though she paid them no mind. That is, until the lord’s flock interrupted her transcription efforts within a ruin, causing her to flee to avoid being caught. Hidden in the brush, she watched in amazement as they brought the structure crashing down with a handful of explosives. In that haze of smoke and rubble, she couldn’t help but smile. She would seek out this hallowed Lord and determine if he could be of use to her.

Fortunately, for her ambitious designs, she was already upon the path that would lead her straight to him. Far to the northeast of the vast Empire, at the edge of the towering mountain range that split the country in half between the civilized West and the recently acquired Eastern territories, stood a decrepit monument to the now-extinct Valkyurian race. There stood a library of incredible size, built right into the rocky mountainside that had long gone unnoticed by Imperial Archaeologists. In many ways, it was a testament to the engineering prowess of the ancient Valkyur, who wished to protect the knowledge of their proud civilization. It was a center of knowledge to the ancient race, where many scholars and philosophers must have gathered; now, though, its halls sat empty.

Or, nearly empty, rather. The crumbling tower did have a sole resident, one who kept the companty of the stray wildlife that found refuge in its eerie halls, bathed in the dull glow of blue. The valkyrian descendant was surrounded by the accomplishments of her ancestors, sitting cross-legged on the floor amidst the deeply worn tomes. Her crimson eyes flickered back and forth between two books in front of her as she deciphered the Old Northern Script. The lettering was heavily faded, and she had to carefully turn the pages with her bandaged fingers, lest the ancient parchment tear. Slowly, she was making progress with her studies.

She’d been immersed in her solitude for several weeks, meticulously hunting for an answer to the disease that was steadily ripping her apart from the inside. Unfortunately, her time of quietude was abruptly cut short when she eventually heard voices echo from the entrance.

She cocked her head to one side, listening intently, as she hunched over. “Guests… It’s about time.” Jerkily, the valkyria stood, making sure to grab the spiraled spear laying on the floor. Wordlessly she dragged her hand down the numerous thorns lining its pole, face pinched in an abnormal smile as blood steadily dripped from her hand.

Excitedly she crept through the winding hallways, eventually crossing near the entrance. There she found two Commissariat enforcers carefully planting explosive charges along base of the support struts. Their distinct black armor confirmed what she needed to know; these were the Crows that would lead her to their Lord.

She waited in the shadows, listening intently. The shorter man, arms filled with packed bombs, spoke to his comrade. “I know it’s not my place to question the Lord Commissar…”

“Then don’t,” The kneeling soldier responded, twisting a dial on the explosive device as he sat it on the floor near a groove in the wall. “This job is easy. No dark-hairs shooting at us.”

“Sure, but I read through Directive Mutan. Every single one of the pages are blacked out aside from the first sentence,” The short man said, handing another charge over. “No justification, or—or even an expenditure list.”

The kneeling man shook his head. “If Lord Commissar York wants these old ruins buried, then these old ruins are going to be buried. He pays us to not think about it.”

“Right, but… isn’t what we’re doing… _blasphemous_?” the nervous shoulder grew to a hesitant whisper, before he spoke up once more, “The Almighty themselves once walked these halls.” He shifted, balancing what remained in his arms.

The kneeling man paused his work, clearly considering the idea. In the end, though, all he said was, “Maybe it is. Or maybe we are just making room for land development.”

Revealing herself from the shadows, the ghostly valkyria grinned, though it appeared hostile. “Consider yourself fortunate…” Both men froze, their eyes darting immediately over to her. The kneeling man barely had time to stand before her spear pierced his ribs, pinning him to the wall. He gasped from the shock, gurgling as his blood began to stain the untouched grey tile. She leaned in close, revealing the deep protrusions of ragnite on her neck. “For I am the last divine image you will see on this miserable Earth.” She tore her weapon from his body, a crimson mist spattering her face. She turned to face the other man, who shook at the sight.

He attempted to run, but didn’t make it far before the spear pierced through his calf, stopping him in his retreat. Desperately he tried to crawl, but he could only scream as the lance held him down. The valkyria stepped on his neck, crouching down. She rasped, “Listen, you contemptible insect. This is a sacred place… Send your Lord of Crows to me… so that we may… converse.” She pulled her spear free and disappeared back into the darkness, dragging the corpse along with her.

-

Word of the attack reached Montgomery in the form of a brief telegram that omitted almost all pertinent information besides documenting the death of Enforcer Sokol. Anxious to avoid a potential incident with other branches of the military, the Lord Commissar mobilized an extra squad of enforcers and headed North personally. Arriving shortly after midnight, he found that a small defensive perimeter composed of sandbags and barbed wire had been erected, with several stoic Commissars pointing heavy gatling guns toward the entrance way to the ruin.

He stepped out from his personal car and was immediately hit by a blast of the freezing wind howling throughout the mountain pass. Montgomery shuddered, finding the snow reached all the way up to his knees, making him regret not bringing more appropriate winter weather gear. His glasses became foggy, and he frustratedly tugged them off to wipe them on his coat sleeve. The Commissar in charge of Operation Mutan had to shout, despite their proximity, to be heard over the wailing winds. The stern, straight-laced Amando updated York on the situation, filling in the many blanks left by the initial summon. It was rare to catch the man off-guard, but the present situation was enough to make him lose his nerve. He hastily directed York to a medical tent as snowfall picked up again. Inside was the survivor of the attack, one Leonard Theoflus. The injured man, upon seeing the head of the Commissariat, futilely tried to stand in greeting. “Lord Commissar York!”

Failing to get on his feet he attempted to salute with a burned arm, but Montgomery returned his glasses to his face and held up a hand. “Relax. You will make your wound worse.” He studied the bed-ridden man. Aside from the heavily wrapped, bloody bandages on the man’s leg, Leonard’s face had noticeable blisters across his right side that were beginning to peel. Montgomery crouched beside the officer and said, “Let us be brief. What are we dealing with?”

Leonard’s shoulders drooped and he coughed once into a rag. He tried to ignore the red blot as he pulled back the white cloth. Shakily he said, “A valkyria… Just like the ones detailed in the ISB report…”

He started to cough again before he could continue, chest rattling, but Montgomery knew the report he was referencing. It documented the early observations regarding girls who displayed the abilities of the elder race. He placed a hand on the enforcer’s shoulder and said, “That is good enough. I will see you get the best medical care at our disposal.”

As the Lord Commissar stood, Leonard wheezed. “She—she asked for you.”

Montgomery paused, raising an eyebrow curiously. “Is that so?”

Leonard nodded once. “She wished to converse… with the Lord of Crows.”

“Lord of Crows?” Montgomery said aloud, surprised to hear the superstitious title attached to his office by the peasantry so far away from civilization. “How peculiar.” He waved a hand before continuing, “Regardless. You need to rest now, comrade.” He walked away, pulling the medic tending to Leonard’s wounds with him. He asked quietly, “Will he live?”

The medic, a man with thick bushy eyebrows, answered, “Hard to say. If I didn’t know better, I would’ve thought he was exposed to lethal levels of Ragnite over the course of a week. Not mere minutes.”

Montgomery sighed. Losing good men was never easy. “Do what you can. At the very least, ease his suffering.”

He left, splitting from Amando toward the entrance. Friedhold stood outside the massive doorway, having arrived several hours earlier, wordlessly huddled in a heavy wool coat. Thick icicles hung ominously from the top of the arch, like teeth prepared to bite down on anyone foolish enough to enter. In Friedhold’s hand was an extinguished cigarette, thanks to the cold wind. Upon Montgomery’s approach, he looked up without greeting. “I suppose you already decided to go alone.”

Montgomery stopped next to him and held a hand up toward the sky in a grandiose gesture. “I have been summoned. It would be rude of me to refuse.”

“Or we could collapse the whole damn thing on top of the beast,” Friedhold said bluntly. He was deeply troubled that their top secret operation had been discovered at all. “Then make an official report stating we wrongly assumed this ruin to be of Darcsen make.”

He glanced over, studying his comrades face. Montgomery was resting a finger on his upper lip, clearly considering the idea. “That was the plan regardless. I do not believe our… misguided rivals know of this place’s existence. If they did, the situation would be far more dire.” He nodded once. “Allow me to take this risk, my friend.” He put a hand on Friedhold’s shoulder and said, “One of us must live—to ensure our Empire never strays from its course and finds a place in the new world.”

Friedhold reacted with not much more than a half-shrug; he’d expected as much. He exhaled sharply through his nose. “I pray for your safety, Monty. Whatever this monster wants, it can’t be good.”

“I suppose I shall find out,” Montgomery said, taking a step up. He leaned over, grabbing a blue lamp resting near their boots. Before he entered, he glanced back and flashed a smile. “You forget. Fate has set me upon this strange path and I must admit, I’d like to see where it leads.”

With that, Friedhold watched the Lord Commissar enter the library, massaging his temple. He had specifically rejected the notion of leading the Commissariat and certainly wasn’t enthusiastic about suddenly being thrust into such an important position. For both their sakes, he silently hoped the man wouldn’t be facing his demise.

-

As the light from the entrance receded behind him, Montgomery found it a great tragedy that he’d neglected to bring a camera; the high ceilings and intricate carvings along the walls were uniquely beautiful, unlike anything else he’d ever seen. He resisted the inclination to stop and admire the eldritch architecture. York pressed forward, his own self-assurance easily overshadowing any concern for his own safety he should’ve felt.

He paused abruptly, realizing the faint click of his boots against the stone floor had been replaced with a moist squishing. Calmly his eyes flicked down, and in the glow of the lantern he saw heavy streaks of blood painting the floor. There were bits of white bone settled in the puddles, but no indication of a body. Montgomery bit the side of his cheek and muttered, “How distasteful.”

The trail led the Lord Commissar into a spacious room, inside which were rows and rows of bookshelves holding numerous tomes. His vision was immediately drawn to the massive blue crystal sticking straight up through the floor in the center, bathing the whole room in an unsettling glow.

Seated at the base of the light was a woman with strikingly white hair, draped in a brown bearskin cloak that shrouded her form. She smiled at his approach and in a ghastly tone, croaked, “Ah… You have finally appeared… Lord of Crows.” She seemed to try to open her hand, only to stop short of fully showing her palm. “Apologies for harming your murder, and the mess. You must understand—this library is my birthright, and therefore I cannot allow it to be destroyed until my research is concluded.”

The first thing Montgomery noticed was the fact her dignified cadence wasn’t that different from what might be found in the Imperial court. Her accent was peculiar, and combined with the enunciation on certain syllables, suggested a difficulty with the Empire’s Latin that he himself understood well. His eyes drifted away from hers, which seemed to be looking past him. He took note of the bandages that covered the valkyria’s arms, ending at hands that were curled painfully inward. He struggled to find the right words in the face of such a strange being. A religious man might have fallen to his knees, but Montgomery’s gut instinct was to flee, lest he meet the same fate as his men. Instead, however, he steeled his fear and gave a respectful bow with his right arm out. “As you already seem to know my title, my name is Montgomery York. Honoring your request for an audience.” He gestured in her direction. “Might I ask yours?”

“Oh my… How wonderfully venomous. No doubt you wish to see me under the knife.” The Valkyria leaned to the left slightly, amusedly studying his face. “Or, perhaps not… Humans are so difficult to predict… Especially in the regards to you, Lord of Crows.” Her amusement vanished abruptly and she shifted, “But you want a name, as is custom. Truthfully, I doubt you could pronounce my true name. It was bestowed by the last of our elders in the old tongue.” She placed a hand on her chin, appearing thoughtful. Finally she concluded, “This form was once labeled Saeoth by a few fortunate enough to look upon it and live. So I will grant you the privilege of calling me that as well.”

Her phrasing struck Montgomery as odd, but he decided against asking for clarification. The shorter this confrontation, the better chance he had to survive, he supposed. “Very well. Saeoth.” Uncertain about what to say he gave a single stiff shrug, “Am I what you hope to meet?”

“That I cannot say…” Saeoth murmured as she leaned forward, still not quite looking at him. “I heard stories of a true Lord. A Lord of Crows, whose feathers were blacker than the souls of men, whose very presence inspires terror in the guilty.” She slowly unfurled a finger, which gave a disgusting _crack_ as she pointed in his direction. “Are you such a Lord? The harbinger of the next age?”

Montgomery took a step back, uncertain as to what she was asking. “I am afraid I don’t understand what you mean.”

“That is what I seek. I am weary of this stagnate world,” Saeoth said disappointed by his hesitation. Trying a different approach, she changed the question. “Is it not by your orders that the accomplishments of my progenitors are being buried?” She gestured to the building around them, “This sanctuary was next, was it not? You intend to hasten what time has thus far failed to accomplish.”

There was a silence in the air, and Montgomery tucked his hand into his jacket, considering each word dripping from her mouth. Finally he spoke, carefully at first, “I suppose that is one way to describe it.” Then with conviction, “The Valkyur must become dust.”

Saeoth retracted her finger, raising both white eyebrows. “Are you a fool? They already have…” She started to laugh, though York thought at first she was wheezing, judging by the sound. She halted, face twisting into a pained grimace. “Look around! Here is all that truly remains of the Valkyur!” With that, she clapped her hands together, wincing when they connected. “They are gone… And shall never return. You are burying ghosts.”

“Then I wish to wipe the pages of history clean of their tainted legacy,” Montgomery retorted, eyes alive with passion as he made a resolute fist. His fear gone, he stuck a finger toward her. “Europe has outgrown its need for saviors ordained from on high. We must become the masters of our own destiny, else all will be lost.”

She listened intently to his words, allowing them to hang in the air between them. The passion present was enough to resonate with her, and the deep-seated rejection of the current nature of all. Satisfied with the answer, Saeoth stood, a move that caused her to grunt in pain. “Marvelous answer…”

Her muted reaction was soon punctuated by a sudden excited declaration as she held both arms in his direction, “After all these years, a worthy successor has materialized! One fit to cleanse this guilty world!” She smiled faintly. “Tell me… Are you certain you are human?”

Montgomery was taken aback by the question, and awkwardly touched his face as if to remind himself he was of flesh. He answered, “Do I look like anything else?”

Saeoth was deeply disappointed by the question, and lowered her arms, slowly approaching. “There is no pride to be had in embracing humanity, my most gracious Lord of Crows. Those bipedal insects worship at the foot of graves. In their profound stupidity, they will reject you.” She stopped inches from him, an intense odor of iron drifting from her body. “You can be something so much greater. Above all other pretenders. A true lord…” Before he could respond, she leaned in, growling, “As such, allow me to offer you what remains of my fading power. Together we can drag the world free from this age of darkness.”

Unnerved by her offer, Montgomery shoved her away, the hair on his neck standing up. The abyss stood just at his feet, yet the urge to jump frightened him. His hand was shaking violently, and he held onto it, trying to calm himself. He reached upward, fixing his glasses, and swallowed. “Y–you must be mad! Do you expect me to ignore the fact one of my men has been butchered by your hand? Another will die soon.” More confidently, he shouted, “A foul witch! I reject your temptations!”

That is all he was able to say before Saeoth’s hand shot out, grabbing him by the throat. He felt rough jags pushing through the bandages, scraping his skin. Visible across her arm was blue chunks of ragnite glowing vibrantly as she snarled, “Lord of Crows… I implore you to reconsider.”

She released him, and he took a deep breath. Bowing her head, Saeoth said, “It is your right to reject me… but do understand. Should you, I will guarantee this shall be our tomb.” With the threat in the open, she brought forth a white rod from underneath her cloak and slid it against the palm of her hand. Blood trickled through her bandages, as a spiraled point took shape at the top.

In a flash she jerked it toward her stomach, intending to stab herself, as the aura around her became even more intense. It was only when Montgomery shouted, “Stop!” that she paused, staring at him wildly. He watched with wide eyes as the tip hovered just inches from her body. He held out a hand, “You have made your point! There is no need for that.” He had never witnessed a final flame personally, but knew of the ability from his time with Doctor Belgar. In the hopes of placating her, he motioned for calm. “Let’s say I accept your offer. What do you hope to gain from such an arrangement?”

Lowering her spear, Saeoth smirked, satisfied that he backed down. “I believe I can gain many things from you Lord of Crows. Perhaps at a later date, we can discuss my desires in great detail. After all, you are worthy to hear them.” When he remained silent, clearly expecting a better answer, she sighed. “It would seem I have reached an impasse in my studies. The limit of what specters can offer me. What I need is information. Texts regarding… the achievements of the Old Valkyrian Lords.” Her spear vanished, and she tucked it away. “I wish to verify if there is any truth to them.”

“Oh, is that all?” Montgomery pressed, able to tell she was clearly still hiding much from him.

Saeoth crossed her arms. “Yes… That is all.” She paused, then quickly added, “I also demand protection from your Empire’s scientists. This form is much older than most, and while I am sure the pain would be exquisite, I have no wish to provide a false emperor any knowledge about my kind.”

Montgomery once again found her choice of phrasing peculiar, placing a hand on his chin thoughtfully. “Keeping secrets is my job. No one will even know you exist.” He nodded. “I trust you understand that my first and only loyalty is to the Imperial Alliance. No harm can come to her while you are in my employ.”

“Very well. Then we have an accord,” Saeoth said, relaxing her posture significantly. She stuck her left hand toward him and he nervously took it, feeling the fresh blood against his glove. “Our pact cannot be broken, Lord of Crows. We will rise or fall as one…”

-

When Montgomery emerged from the ruin in the company of Saeoth, Friedhold wasn’t sure what to think. In fact, he didn’t say anything at all, deciding that whatever agreement had been reached, it was best he didn’t ask. Such was the nature of the internal politics of the Imperial Commissariat.

The three of them stood by as the black-clad engineers set to work. The numerous books held inside were boxed up and loaded into crates. It was a quick change in policy, as Montgomery had originally intended to bring the whole library down on top of its contents, but Saeoth was quite insistent that every text needed to be saved along with a chunk of wall that she claimed was an important piece to a larger puzzle. Once the last crate was lifted onto the back of an idling truck, the bombs were planted throughout the library.

Montgomery remained stoic, his black coat fluttering in the breeze. Curious, Saeoth couldn’t help but comment, “Are you sure, Lord of Crows? You are depriving your beloved Empire of such a unique holy site.”

Her sarcasm dripped from her mouth, and Montgomery removed his glasses, wiping the lens. He settled them back on his nose and simply said, “I didn’t see any Valkyur in there.” He signaled to one final engineer waiting near a trigger, from which numerous wires ran back inside the ruin. An explosion followed, and the library came crumbling down.


End file.
